four.

I've been reading TS Eliot on the bus.
He makes me laugh, loves poems but detests
poets (hints that Johnson was a wanker,
claims Milton spoke his own dying language,

reserves for Joyce strange special kinds of cruelty
wrapped in beribboned backhand compliments)
and I imagine going down to the pub with him.

Did he go to pubs? Did he sit around with a pint
and listen to people call him names he
didn't know? Did he swallow down the thoughts

he didn't want and drink faster? I bet no one
ever told him to smile pretty as he walked down
a sidewalk or sat on a bus. I bet he could wear

what he liked (kitten heels and short skirts, maybe
corsets—who knows, even fishnets, garters, fabrics
that shout strangers can touch) and go out

alone, even late at night. I bet he never poked
himself in the eye with his mascara wand.
I bet, when he argued that poetry should be in
phrases that are genuine, I'm not what he meant.