Celebrity Verses Poetry: George Clooney

Let No Woman Put Our Fantasy Asunder

clooney

Has our national suave bachelor

finally succumbed

to the white picket fence

and 2.5 kids?

 

Our fantasy of

salt and pepper lothario

luxuriating in silk robes

and bubble bathing

with champagne,

our feet in hands

candles lit

gone,

like a bath bubble

popped

and with violence.

 

Who shall we envision now

to be our “mature” lover?

Who shall play the role

of CEO

of our hearts?

 

And oh the weeping!

The wailing and gnashing

of veneered teeth!

The obscura

of blandly attractive

Hollywood slinking

back into

the shadows.

No hope for

an awards season or two

on George’s arm,

launching them into

middling stardom

and competitive reality

TV hosting duties.

 

Oh the VIP sections

of dimly-lit bars

where meet the

former never-Mrs.-Clooneys:

the cocktail waitress,

the arm banded Italian tattooed,

the professional tanned wrestler,

shaking heads and drinking

Appletinis.

Their loss the archetype

of the couldn’t commit

now suddenly Mr. Beaver.

 

And all it took

was a beautiful internationally

renowned lawyer

with a heart of gold—

a part custom-fit for our hero

and one we weep

at our inability to portray

as we eat cookie dough

out of tubes

and watch

Michael Clayton

letting his seductive gravel voice

transport us to our second life

of attractive, beloved, admired

top percentile attractive

important-sounding-job

real-world/Hollywood elite.

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