The formalist would put you in a suit.
He would knot the tie so tight
around your tiny little neck,
that you would strangle to death.
The romantic would demand that you disrobed,
down to your silken stockings,
so that he could describe you walking
in all your splendor through the dusk air.
And then there is the Victorian,
who would worry more how Fra Pandolf’s hands
worked at the canvas of your throat
than how his ink depicted your dress.
Only chance would place him side by side
with Prufrock though, who would sooner put you
in a gas mask than a marriage gown,
so that they could ponder the sea together.
Yet who am I but another suitor
come to parade you across the palace floor—
for a minute. Another to curl the strands of your hair
over your ears and whisper sweet nothings to you.
Did you like this poem? Let me know by leaving a like and a comment!
Want to keep up-to-date on all my posts? Follow my blog!
Want to see more of my work? Check out my blog’s site!
Feel free to share any of my work!
You can follow me on social media! 🙂