poem19 Mar 2012 06:01 pm

Whatever became of Oberon’s Indian boy,
the one Titania loved so much
she bed a donkey rather than give him up,
then, returning to her senses
seemed not to care at all?

There was no particular talent
he had, no special gift or blessing,
beyond quiet charm and boyish
good looks. There was the unfortunate birth,
the luck of being in the right place,
the right time, catching the scout’s eye
when she felt vulnerable, old, uncertain.

But was he, after all the fuss and fret,
the elemental war of poisoned eyes,
only a lark, a fad, the proverbial
flash in the pan, midlife
infatuation with impossible youth,
something we’d inevitably outgrow?

He became the darling of the internet,
Ganymede without the cups,
aging into oblivion.
He gained a few pounds,
got lost in his own celebrity,
never found love or meaning,
finally died the death no poet
fears, alone and overexposed.


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