Marilyn Monroe, not me

This is a poem that has been around for you wouldn't believe how long. I still haven't been able to do much with it, but I think this is as much as I can do with it. It's from a night in Belfast when I was sitting in front of my desk avoiding doing Physics. My brother had this picture of Marilyn Monroe that I inherited with his room, which I had thought I would discard for a while. This poem is the result of my decision. If you don't know about her marriages or her films, this will probably not make much sense to you. I said all this about a poem (which I never do) just in case you thought I'd competely lost it this time. I'm sort of exorcising this poem by putting it up here, never to be worked at again ... unless you have any suggestions.


Marilyn Monroe, not me

I take her picture off my windowsill
Now my face reflects where I’m sitting still
A voice from my mind wisely utters the plea
It’s better to say, ‘Marilyn, not me’

But her icon’s gone, there is only me
The eyes of a God reflect in 2-D
A heavenly glass with small paint splashed stars
No sexy posing on Cadillac cars

I hold my desk lamp and play with its light
And write Japanese left-handed at night
Simulate rocking, audience mocking
I sit still and thrill, watch without talking

I’m a ball player, a wink for the girls
I play to madness in a crazy world
Where crowds in my mind cheer any old twitch
Carry the pitcher all over the pitch

But I’m just in drag breaking fingernails
Just digging for dirt and bringing up snails
So I replace her and let her remain
Reflected in me, in my window pane

She picks at my ice, steams up my glasses
Walks on air vents and smells of molasses
Easy to remember, easy to see why
Her face was amidst the stars of the sky

I’ll settle down to rest, if she’ll do the same
My pillow’s a breast, not fortune or fame
I’ll whisper in low, confess that I see,
‘Marilyn Monroe’, happily, not me.