Just suppose your Ovid had a phone
And consequently didn’t have to pine,
Or send epistulae to Rome by boat.
He could call or text you, all the time;
And, more important, you could send him love –
In sexy voicemails, naughty messages.
That’d cut the distance down a lot
And, frankly, stir the exiled poet’s pot.
What say you, muse? A good idea or not?
I’m teasing you, of course. We’ve both got phones
And your bewitching voice, seductive notes
Are the air in which your poet floats.