I'm not sure if this qualifies, but here it is: consider it a pas de deux with Ms. Benedict's narratrix... (Except now that I re-read the "assignment" I see that third-person was mandated, and thus (as usual) I have failed miserably to color between the lines, not even to mention the incurbale optimism that permeates even my most plangent attempts at self-deprecation...)
Fool Sings
Should I sing songs? I’ve got a lousy voice,
but I’d croak gladly if it pleasured you.
Bend backwards, touch my heels? A supple man
I’m not, but I’d do pretzels for your smile.
For just one touch, I’d pen a perfect rhyme.
A single kiss? Sonnets would rain on you.
Or — Dream of Dreams! — but offer me your heart,
not all the world’s words would be enough
because in the dying world there is no time…
I cook, I sew, I’ve learned to clean a house:
the plumbing’s not a mystery to me.
I know enough to run a separate load
for denims when I’m at the Laundromat.
I understand the workings of a car.
I can drive boats. I’ve even flown a plane.
Withal, I’m just a total paragon,
Domestic Virtue looking for a home,
as if, in the dying world, we might find time…
I know you think me something of a clown,
an easy laugh, a friendly sort of fool,
and I’ll buy that — but still, my foolish heart
cries out no less than ever heart has done,
denies the mask, if you would hear it cry.
No words can do the job — or, I have none.
How can I come to you? It makes no sense.
You will, or won’t. We are, or we might be,
here, now, in the dying world. We must make time…
(robt)
[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited March 29, 2004).]
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