The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock's Mistress Poem by Martin Patrick McCarthy

Here we shall wait, you and I,
And settle our heads against a pillow as we lie
Waiting, waiting for love...

J. Alfred! Why doth thou hesitate!
I need thee now, I cannot wait!
I am aroused when I see him ascend the stair
(And see that glistening bald spot in the middle of his hair)
And yet you tarry; come love make speed
For it is you I desperately need!

At night, with the cat by my side
I ask, 'If he loves me, why does he hide? '
It is true he is not apt with speech
But those ready-made words are within his reach.
He may not be Hamlet, but who needs to be
When all he has to say is that he loves me!

I pray for the day he will take my hand
And upon my finger fit a wedding band.

Had we had world enough, and Time,
This coyness, J. Alfred, would be no crime.
And while my beauty today would glimmer
(That's what you'd say) , Tomorrow, it shall be dimmer.
I want everyone upon this spinning rock
To see me as Mrs. J. Alfred Prufrock!

But J. Alfred, could it be
That I am not worthy for thee.
Do you look upon me
And not like what you see?

During my daily stairway vigil
I wonder whether dwelling upon you is criminal.
If it is, I accept the fetter
For there is no thought that could be better...

But J. Alfred, could it be
That you lookupon me and not like what you see?

I look into a mirror
And see I made a grave error.
The beauty I think I see
Are just the words you've said to me.
'Your hair is beatiful and fine...'
(It looks like seaborne brine) .
'Your body is soft and fair...'
(It is oddly shaped like a pear) .

I truly want to be
The image in the mirror you wished to see.

No! I am not Helen of Troy!
My grotesque self is why you are coy.
It is in bed, Meneleus would stay
If, by Paris, I were whisked away.
These blistered and chapped lips
Could never set sail a thousand ships.

I grow dull; I am past my prime;
I'll use coffee spoons to measure out time.
I'll bid men nearly grown
To gaze upon me and turn to stone.

And I hoped, hoped for the ring
And for minstrels to dance and sing,
But hopes (it is their nature) are surely dashed
Like a mighty Barque upon the rocky shore; crashed.

(7 July 1994)