The Mustache Poet

He was steeped in Eliot, the gentleman
with the curled mustache, traces of Ash
Wednesday upon his lips, Wasteland fingertips,
what a delight upon delight murmured 
restless nights, to but see him smile.

His Prufrockian adoration, just another
admiration of the man behind the words,
another movement towards, enlightenment
in Four Quartets of attraction, I want to be
his distraction..
So how should I presume?

It is late when the seas come in, late
even for Hollow Men, but not too late
to begin again, you and I, breathing
dawn across the sky, like first-opening 
eyes, I want you to look at me.

SJW