Do I fancy myself as more of a Marvell
when I watch her delicate hands search
for the rubies in her mind’s Ganges?
Or am I more of a Herrick, as I clearly envision
her smile blossoming before me and withering
in the absence of my oh-so-seductive presence?
Surely I must be a Housman;
does my heart sadden to think of the cherries still
desperately clinging onto the boughs of my beloved’s body?
I’m not any of these, am I? No, I’m not.
I’m more akin to J. Alfred Prufrock,
fearful of the oppressive time being spent and my fading looks.
Though no one knows, my muse is coy and discrete, a true siren of time.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, the young girl afraid of the clock is me.
Do I ever see the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo? No.
But all the while, I drown in my own incompetence,
suffocate in my solitude, afraid of my own carnal desires.
I’ve lost my chance for now to “seize the day”.
But hey, there’s always tomorrow.