A Loaded Gun
I was walking down the First Street
Listening to Billy Collins making love to Emily Dickinson
When he undressed her gently in the sound waves
I too saw a shadow cast on the orchid below
Not even a poetry lover I am
But still, I couldn’t help but sigh with her
When I pretended that it was my bow, my feathers, and my plank
No, I do not have epilepsy
My brain is perfectly normal just like everybody else, damn it!
I do lead a reclusive life, however
But that's only because I was involuntarily laid off
In this miserable financial weather
No, I do not know Emily Dickinson
Even though I often pretend to be a feminist like she really was
Yes I do constantly struggle with life and love
But as an anonymous, nobody really cares
Maybe I will also make myself known if I could learn to write like her
But talent is such a fragile thing
You can only be blessed with
But never acquire
So there, I just had to sigh with her
Yes, life is indeed a loaded gun
Hers kills with a yellow eye
Mine weeps in secrets I can’t describe
I wish I had a poet’s hands and eyes
But flesh is such that even dissected on a doctor’s board
The hidden gun is still hidden, invisible
And certainly not transferable
So I decided to give up my pathetic habit of daydreaming
And focus on the twenty resumes I had in my tote
No, I do not have epilepsy
My brain is perfectly normal just like everybody else
Thank God!
I had to hurry to catch my next interview
Surely they wouldn't ask how Billy Collins took off Emily Dickinson's corset
But when the loaded gun took a shot in such bitter summer wind
I almost couldn’t help but sit down for a minute
For just one minute
For that’s how long a tear would need
To silently reach the dry ground
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