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