Your mother named you Rosemounde:
she studied Chaucer briefly (viz: read those handy notes of Cliff)
in college, which your Poppy paid for. This was of course before she found
her doctor-lawyer-heir, your to-be Daddy, Jeff.
She got her MRS, her B.A., and then she left
to be beautiful full-time. It was about four years
before you came along -- you and the second Jeff.
She raised you to be lovely, just like all the other lovelies here.
She raised you well, my lovely Rosamounde:
To wear the shades, the shoes, the weary stare.
You've the right clothes, the hundred-dollar-tousled hair
dyed six shades of pale blonde. Your skin is brown.
You've never weighed above a hundred pounds.
You wear white jeans and wedges, and you glare
hungry-eyed at your boyfriend's bread, and cheese, and beer,
and nibble at your dinner. Leave most of it there:
You must be lovely, just like all the other lovelies here.
You do hot yoga, and you shop downtown,
Buy organic chia seeds, and iPhones, and the ugly mocs
everyone's wearing this year. You sound
informed and passionate about the cause.
You can demolish mainstream-sellout bands. Your thoughts
and likes are fervent and sincere:
World hunger, local produce, candidates' talks --
Oh Rosemounde -- just like all the other lovelies here.
Fair Rosemounde, I can't see past the skin
of loveliness you've wrapped yourself in.
You have, I know, a single, starlike soul
that I could love -- you could be a friend.
God humble my heart. Make my eyes clear
To see, not another polished clone,
but the only Rosemounde of all the lovelies here.