Writing Prompt 7:

Rewrite: Take any poem or short story that you enjoy. Rewrite it in your own words.

Submission A: – The Lovesong of J. Alfred Profrock – TS Eliot

The Unloved Song of B. Lee Rekab

Who am I but pieces

jumbled and tossed to the ground

Dirty and tired.

I walk these lonely streets

scared and alone in life,

one night stands, cheap eats

the voices, knowing in my head.

What am I doing

where can I go?

In the streets the ladies come and go

speaking of what’s in vogue.

I slip through the night, looking through window frames

looking for signs of life in homes rich and poor

searching the evening for delights

standing quiet in the shadows, watching

dancing and prancing my way in the dark

sliding over porches, silent as a mouse

feeling the fall chill as I snuggle a house

slipping under the decks, for a night of rest.

There will be plenty of time

to search and find,

to connoiter and spy

Yes, plenty of time

to seek and find,

my soul,

hung out like laundry on every line.

Time to play lost and found

with my heart on every round

a time for us

our scattered pieces, reclaimed

rearranged and returned

long before dinner and she.

In the streets the ladies come and go

speaking of what’s in vogue.

Plenty of time

to be weak and then brave

to ask them out, or chicken out

Wondering if my looks are fine

will they think simply meh?

Oh what will I wear to make a good first impression

All I have seems to reflect my depression.

They will see the weakness in my knees

the sweat on my palm

what will I do?

go forth, or hang my head in retreat?

I’ve been down this road too many times before

I know how it ends

I know where it ends

I see the past retreats

I feel their weight on my shoulders.

               Why would this time be any different?

This road is long and dark and sad

I can travel all day to get there

but it always ends the same

it always ends the same.

How can this be different

where is the new road?

it hasn’t appeared as of yet?

All those before, I see in my mind’s eye

Beautiful and fair

many colors of hair.

Their aromas so divine

Like Grenouille, I want them mine.

Beauty that makes me cry and hide

               Why me?

               How could it be me?

Do I talk of my nightly dance

the way I sneak and prance

of what I saw through darkened windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

Here we rest by the sea

Waves like fingers, roaring

never asleep, jus constantly roaring

stretched out on the sand, all the pieces of my mind regathered

will we be able, after we eat,

to regain any pieces that we lost?

I have hunted, we have hunted,

but pieces are lost and we are not the same without them.

Who am I? No one who matters,

the great imposter, waiting for the inevitable fall.

My future is passed, I am now left out to pasture.

I am, afraid.

Maybe it would have been better to have tried

to speak my mind

to tell you, or them, how I felt

Maybe I should have tried

to say the words with a smile

to say I really like you, all the while.

To get on one knee and profess my love.

to say, “I will cherish you and love you,

if that is what you want me to do”-

but then I expect the look,

               and the voice, “what are you on about:

               that’s not what I meant at all.”

Maybe it would have been better to have tried

to speak my mind

to show you what I mean, to dance with you in the streets

to show you my nightly retreats

to let you know the beauty of my streets!

But I fear you could never see,

the beauty the streets hold for the likes of me.

would it have been better to show you

but I, once again, expect that look

and your voice as you rest your book:

               “what are you on about now,

               that’s not what I meant at all.”

I’ll never be a Prince Charming, that’s just not me

I was built for management, not speed

An idea man, get things going, and pass it along

somewhat of a jester, a self-deprecating fool

hat in hand, always ready to lend a hand

careful and quiet, not footloose

Full of promise, but never quite fulfilled

At times a ridiculous tool,

or even a fool.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Luckily, no need for a comb over.  An iron stomach on most accounts

Can I still pull off a speedo at this age?

I hear the ladies whistling on the beach, each to each.

I do not think they whistle for me.

I watch them on their boards

surfing the white waves with their hair ablaze

the waves now dark and ominous

with sea beasts down below

I remember that scene in Jaws, as it tossed her to and fro

I hear their screams, and run.

Submission B:

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