"Susan is a Finger, looking for a Ring," I said.
Shirley laughed agreement and so the label was got.
When Susan got married we observed she'd found a Ring,
Looking for a Finger: it couldn't last and would not.
So we started to ID those desperate for a mate
As Fingers or Rings on the make, it was in their genes.
We blithely enjoyed our lives: single, together;
Forty years marriage and four ex-spouses, between us.
How did I overlook the obvious? Who could know.
She sat me down and asked, one day when I showed up:
"Are we going anywhere with this relationship?"
No glib answer allowed, "I don't think so," I owned up.
She looked at me long, then spoke with hope I'd interrupt:
"I'm getting married;" described him, their plans, naught of love.
She glanced at her empty hand, sheepishly admitted:
"I really am a Finger." I left her, no Ring to give.
