t.s. wrote of coffee spoons and faces upon faces
and i think he said it all.
it appears alfred j. is the only one worth knowing
and all my other gasps and grasps
at this literary moment
lie flat before his whimpering feet.
how is it that i know the women downstairs
and i feel the cat slinking by
and i dream of those bellowing mermaids
even though it’s been 14 years
since freshman lit
and my tattered green nortons
is buried on the other side of the world?
i hold you in my heart, dear alfred,
i whisper to you
and look for you at parties
(maybe i am you at parties)
i suppose i should thank old mr. eliot,
for leaving me void of words and
giving me my love.

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