If I was a picture,
I would be a Dutch master,
Tarry black background night,
And I would be the red, yellow and orange
Aromatic sun rising in the centre.
I sit on this white, gold rimmed plate,
Awaiting the knife
From this pathetic man.
He admires the women,
Shapely as my rounded form,
As they come, but he lets them go.
He does not hear their song.
Sitting there he thinks himself
As the juicy flesh beneath my lightly textured skin.
Velvet suited, no, more an aged shabby,
Bruised, perhaps, upon the surface,
He has a heart of stone within.
Is he a wise man? More an honest fool,
Laertes, preparing for the duel with true intent.
I see the knife replaced and know I’m safe.
Would he cut me? Would he dare!
© Martin Porter 1995
Written for the pure fun of it, “Prufrock’s Peach” is a poem from an unusual point of view, that of a peach, slightly arrogant and an observer of one of the most enigmatic characters in modern poetry.