Poetic retort

“Bring me the sunset in a cup!” she commanded. But it was already nighttime, the moon was up, plus if I hadn’t been so electrically inebriated, I would have recognized her directive as the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem, although I wouldn’t have also known if she was aware of this fact since she delivered the statement with absolute austerity. In any case, I was loaded – juiced, stewed, tanked, utterly befuddled… sitting on my ass in the dew-accumulating grass of the cemetery staring at the wide-open moon, the fat, insolent face of it, and weaving worms through my hair. She’d been driving me bonkers all night; I was completely beyond the three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of caring, completely and one-hundred percent.

“Go hump a corpse!” I yelled back, perhaps, or maybe the thought didn’t actually make it from my mind to out the old gob. The crazy bitch eventually left, I think, not getting her frizzling sunset tea or whatever the drip it was she wanted, and now that I think of it again, what I should have said in response was “What if a much of a which of a wind!” which is the first line of an e. e. cummings poem (that old punctuation-raping bastard being my most cherished of poets, by god). How it would have gotten her naggy goat, since she’s allergic to both hypotheticals and w’s! Hindsight’s forever twenty-twenty is what they tell me, and I suppose they’re right.

~ by kingzoko on December 12, 2013.

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