This is a poem I wrote to my best friend, Lady Higg, in Sebtember of 2011. The poem was also written to fulfill an exercise in iambic pentameter, which explains the form and the few syllables I’ve left out of words. I’m posting it now because THIS WEEK, Lady Higg and her worthy consort, Dr. Longbottom, are in the process of moving to a new town. Here’s hoping everything goes well for both of them in their new digs!
So here’s to coffee in the morning. Here’s
to vodka drained at night. Here’s to all
the useless chatter that surrounds and feeds
and bleeds our damn dry souls. It’s not real life,
we said, while sipping tea and laughing in
a morning-after fog. And then, today,
“They found a body in a garbage bag,
a minute from my house.” Say what?
You may have trumped my three a.m., just talk-
ing, walking, and then, you know, my Saturday:
the car on third, the buildings and the bush
we hid behind and waited for the drama
to unwind. “Never fall in love
with Katie Couric,” sang your myst’ry creep
at four. A light was on, and I was prob’ly
losing hope already for a day
without a headache. Well, and that’s just how
it goes. But still. They found a body in
a garbage bag a minute from your house.
I hope you find a new apartment soon.