Prate Rape

Your honor, she started taking her prose off even before we
dated, insinuating she’d like to pay a visit to Shakespeare in the
Park. She had already investigated his loft at the Open Air
Theater in London’s Regent Park. She hankered to see some
drama there and, in lieu of that, we flirted with one at Holland
Park. My playful, “As You Like It” wasn’t rebuffed. Nor would
I try to intimidate her with a Lear. It also didn’t hurt her
sensibilities for me to spike her thinking with “A Midsummer
Night’s Dream” at Richmond Park. But she was wide awake

when she lay on the grass. Yes, there was a beam of pleasure in
her eyes – for Shakespeare’s sake, not mine. But I swear your
honor, The Tempest wasn’t in my breast, but a downpour that
came after the Twelfth Night. And, despite appearances, “A
Winter’s Tale” was the only one I’d get, when we went together
to Harringay’s Finsbury Park. It’s true, she seemed to yield to
my come hither look when I attempted to take her to my
treasured “Hamlet”. Unfortunately, when later we met,
understandably drunk on pentameter, the girl said no. Of course
I was disappointed. But when a girl says no, your honor, she
means no. And so, I let her go, holding a copy of Love’s
Labour’s Lost, which I’d given her a week before. And that was
the extent of it. So it’s all so Much Ado About Nothing. 


DeCanio Born in New Jersey, my cultural home is New York City. I love music of all kinds, from Bach to Amy Winehouse. Shakespeare is my consolation.