as charming as he may be, a poet is not a husband-material,
because sooner or later he will turn your life into a cadence
of words scattered randomly across the page. so you better
listen to what mrs. dreyfuss said, and find yourself a nice,
substantial man, a widower perhaps, and settle down instead
of looking longingly at that beatnik. unless you do not mind
life without a napkin.
hidden pilcrow 
Life with a poet would truly be tragic. You’ll lose your mind knowing that you’re always out of napkins (and when they go for the toilet paper next, you know you have a far too gone, love sick poet) and that blue pen you used to have—it suddenly vanished in thin air.
Don’t get me started on their flowery poetics. Absolute hearts on the sleeve these people, and does it ever make sense? Depends on the beatnik!
Jokes aside, I love this. Very cleverly written and I love the imagery you weave here. Fascinating!
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