Me And Viv
She was the heartbeat of desire,
by John F. McCullagh
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller's face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn't fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed