To J. Alfred Prufrock

Prufrock, The streets wander infinitely beneath the void of the grey sky. Shall we drive together You and I? Shall we drive? Down these wandering streets, down the back roads, neatly tarred, Down the cul-de- sacs and the streets and the lanes and the drives With names like morning bird, sunrise, or rosewood. The letter is a specter on the dashboard. Oh, do not ask me about it. Let us finish our drive. Prufrock, I have wandered through these suburbs at all hours Have seen the picnics, the car washes, the children on bikes. This barrage of houses and picket fences and two-car garages. Going on and on and on. Do I dare... Prufrock, What am I to say? When I stand before the conferences Of parents and teachers and relatives? Do I say that I have seen a thousand burgers Frying on a thousand grills? And in the kitchen the servers come and go. Discussing sex and video games and getting high. Prufrock, I am so small And there is too much inside me. I should have been the insubstantial sun Burning itself out in a desperate attempt To light up the endless sky. Do I dare disturb the universe? And after all this? After the acceptance letters and the dreams of city lights and the midnight car rides? And all this and so much more? How do I explain? How do I squeeze my universe into a globe? How do I prepare an acceptable face To meet these faces? The onslaught of eyes The eyes that blink and say "I don't understand. I don't understand at all." Prufrock, was I ever meant to be more than the fool? Do I dare... Prufrock, I have seen the years rolled out And I am growing older And, in short, I am afraid. I am afraid that the mermaids will not sing to me either. Do I dare... I am so small Do I dare... ...disturb the universe?