Glove Lettuce

Don’t leaf me, she sighed from the bed.
Everyday, wilting a little more, 
she wrote little gems endivering 
to melt his iceberg heart. 
They failed. She romaines alone. 
Radicchiolously cheerful though, 
not salad, cos even when it’s chard, 
it’s batavia to have loved and lollo rossoed 
than never to have lollo rossoed at all.