Zero has always been the undesirable limit,
The maximum, the intricate abstraction for the possible.
He fell in love with a girl named Priscilla
And courted her in Tennessee, in Paris, in Bermuda.
She never cared for his style, his clothes, his money,
His accent, his teeth, the hood of his carriage.
So he swore to construct an imposing bridge
Linking the French and the British across the channel.
With toothpicks, chewing gum, library paste, and twelve
Tons of aluminum girders, he created merely suspicion.
He fell in love with a girl named Susan
And, in fact, tamed lions for her, tamed tigers.
The truth is that when he asked her, in Cairo,
To marry him, she replied with infinite sweetness, “No.”
After which, in something like dogged haste, he built
Miniature trains in Siam, for an idiot Sultan,
And a concert hall in Tibet for indigent shepherds
And was paid, for both of his pains, with execration and music.
Then fell in love with a girl whose name was Renata
Who looked at him always as if he stood in her light,
Who, when he kissed her, as he did in Des Moines and in Reno.
Took a deep breath and looked in her purse for more Kleenex.
One thing he did well — he knew how to add, to the limit,
And solved his problem at last by discovering zero.