Today’s napowrimo suggestion is to write a poem in the point of view of a minor character in a folktale or myth. I choose neither. Because Shakespeare:
Rosaline Goes to an Old Accustomed Feast
I was on the guest list and I decided to go
even though I knew he would be there.
I wanted no awkward moments but I trusted
there would be none. I think I convinced him
that between he and I there could be no hope
of anything like an enduring relationship,
let alone the kind of fling thing
for which these boys in Verona are so keen.
I let him down as easily as I could, or rather,
I devised, I must confess, a diversionary tactic,
one against which there could be no response
or argument. I told him I have sworn
that I will still live chaste, forever celibate,
no monkey business, that soon I would be on
my way to a nunnery where the concerns
of worldly desires and the dangers of menfolk
would be far away. This was a lie. Frankly,
I’m really looking forward to the mystery dance,
but, truth be told, even though he’s pretty good
looking for a Montague, I won’t do it with him.
I just don’t like that guy. He’s flighty,
too much like a boy, his friends are creepy,
and by the looks of his behavior at the Capulet
shindig, he’d be about as faithful to a woman as a
honey bee to a single daisy. Never have I been one to gloat,
but truthfully, Paris is the man that floats my boat.