A Poem Inspired by "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Expired


She sat in the shade of her bookshelf,
perusing out her porthole,
hands perched above her type-writer,
wondering what shape would pass by next.
“Does inspiration come in shapes?”

But no one heard,
and no one answered.

She would sit alone in the shade of her bookshelf,
day in and day out,
hands perched above her type-writer,
wondering what to write next.
Yellow and red striped wallpaper and
dainty white doyleys smothered her.
“I ought to get a decorator.”

But no one heard,
and no one answered.

As she sat in the shade of her bookshelf,
listening to the pettish cry of children on the street,
hands perched above her type-writer,
she realized she hadn’t written
a single novel
in all her lifetime.
She gazed down in awe at her
prune-like, wise hands,
zealously perched above her type-writer,
gently tottering above her type-writer.
Her jaw dropped in horror
when she finally fathomed the news.
“I’m archaic!”

But no one heard,
and no one answered.

She permitted her
timeworn hands
to fall to her lap.