Mrs Prufrock

Mrs Prufrock

Well,  I remember the hips,

from my station in the bed.

Your husband was long gone

not even a trace of cologne,

not the underwear that hemmed

him in while you played possum in bed.

 

Old strategies die hard:

what we were at twenty two,

what we are now, not ingenues.

I tried to lure you back

but roaches you said would

come if you did not do  dishes

then and there, with soap.

Your husband came and went,

and years, and hips.

I lost a soul, you lost

your lips.

 

I used to run. Now I can

barely walk, and have to roll

my pants-legs up:

and you can run rings around me.

An aging woman’s but a

distant thing. Your mother’s

querulous voice, your fore-

knuckle growing large on

undistinguished hands,

like a walnut, the firm breasts

begging for more time and

fewer veins.

 

You might have been

an anchor, or a dock: but no–

a temporary storm on a black sea

where there is no harbour,

no light, no, nor rising sun.

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