He says he is a perfect poet. <br />He lives alone, with his perfect mate. <br />& sometimes they don't even speak, <br />So perfectly do they 'communicate.' <br /> <br />He lives alone, his greatest pleasures are <br />His pipes, his books, his wife's behind- <br />Which he will often pinch to hear her laugh; <br />He's got a perfect love for womankind. <br /> <br />He seldom writes, distrusting language as <br />A clumsy tool, unequal to his thoughts: <br />He uses it as rarely as he can <br />(No doubt to punish it for all its faults). <br /> <br />But when he writes, he keeps the upper hand <br />(On principle, since words are enemies). <br />He melts them down, then counterfeits his own- <br />A kind of literary alchemy. <br /> <br />He's fortunate to have a perfect muse. <br />A live-in muse, who cooks inspiringly; <br />And sometimes after an ambrosial meal, <br />He'll grab his pen, composing feverishly <br /> <br />A perfect poem, describing in detail <br />The salad, wine, the roast in buttery baste. <br />And reading it, his musing wife agrees <br />That every line smacks of his perfect taste.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-perfect-poet/
