3.2.10

Re: to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot by Cody Davis

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot


Dearest of the old, the bald, the gay,
I must decline the offer you make.
For I’ve pattered claws across my mind
And tucked the dark into its sky.
I’ve closed the doors to eyes and I
And I have lied to those who lie under lamps.

Although I have not counted spoons
I’ve counted footsteps from room to room
And pondered questions you loom to whom
Is just as lost as you have proved.

So how should I presume?

Indeed it seems to be trivial counting days
When time is blurring lines and ways
On streets in towns like oyster shells
That fall anew unto soft ground,

And pictured the monotony,
when Christ called from Galilee
that he raised another from death to life
and said, “this is it, this is all! What my Father wants for one and all!”

I know, I’ve known, that is not it at all.
So how should I presume?

I take my share from room to room
Of wine and bread to alter doom
And upon the occasion with those I know,
I talk of Michelangelo.

Then look down from atop your endless stairs
and whisper quips from ear to ear,
"How bold, you see, his wisps of hair,
thin as his legs and arms are bare!"

I don't play prince or peasant to plea
with answers that come not to me
or visit places not to be
for those who are as old as we.

I take the day with a cup of tea
sweet with afternoons that follow me
and friends I've made that I no longer see
and men in windows that roll their sleeves.

And when I lie to rest my bones
I listen to shores and mermaid songs.
I know they do not sing to me,
but their song lulls me into the sea,
Where I will drift over combs of white
and eat the sun and drink the sky
I know they do not sing to me
but I will drift over where you will be.






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