And So.

And so we walked hungrily through hungry streets,

Adding wrinkles to the shoes on our feet whose textures match our skin

A beat

A tune comes from a room, of women chatting incessantly

Of long remembered artisans.

And so we go to and fro

For we are in no rush to go to where we inevitably go

Avoid the smog, the fog that slouches cat-like in the air

Your thinning hair

And on this crowded stair flow the masks of the seen and yet forgotten

For how important can a stranger be?

And so we dare in this room where the clock tick, tick, ticks,

And the smog, the fog, pads and licks cat-like

Around the milky curtains

And listens as the hum of the neighbors slowly grows

To and Fro

The discussion of Michelangelo.

And so we walked these narrow streets and wore these blisters on our feet

Like the medals of war time heroes. Hidden,

We spoke softly in the light of a scented room reminding you of a lover’s perfume

And heard the calling violins

(Note the whiskers growing steadily, sprouting from your chin)

We sip this, our final tea, and contemplate so quietly,

The energies it took to create, to decimate,

And try to recall the difference.

And so to the beach, walking shameless with your trousers rolled

Take no notice of our sagging skin, numbed cold, blue and pale.

The sand, the spray, the salty air combing back your thinning hair

As we stand and listen to the mermaids off the shore

And wonder who they are all singing for.

It can’t be me; it can’t be me who they sing to

For I hold a world in my gnarled hand, which has never known a wedding band,

Which could create or decimate though I long forgot the difference.

They would not cry for me on this foreign beach

For I am but a stranger.

Feel this, on your thin arms and legs, your balding head, your trousers rolled,

Feel how strong the ocean wind can blow;

You must dye your tears to make them show

See this twisted tree forgot to grow and high above whirls a single crow

As we weep and all eye a peach, half hidden on this desert beach.

And so it is, Mr. Prufrock;

As certain as despair turns us over to the footmen who mock death so,

It is not much of a love song

That ends up as your epitaph.