Emily's Bran Muffins

I get a knock at the door,

it's my friend from upstairs, Emily
Dickinson.

are you up, she says, trying to
look through
the peep hole that i'm looking through.

she looks like hell, her hair
pulled back,

her face pale.
she has a sheathe of papers in her
hands.

she seems to be trembling.

oh brother, I say, unlocking the door.
I know she wants more help
with her poems.

I straightened her out on poem
number 712 a while back.

because I could not stop for lunch,
I had a cup of tea, she wrote, but

I convinced her to change tea
to death, and I had a cup of tea to,

he kindly stopped for me.
she thanked me with a plate
of bran muffins,

which were absolutely inedible.

whatcha got Emily, I was just about
ready to watch a game
on tv?

i'm in my boxer shorts and a t-shirt,
she averts her eyes and looks
at the dart board I have on the far wall.

well, she says, I have this poem,
number 254 and i'm sort of stuck,

it starts out,
hope is a thing with feathers
that perches in the soul....

I roll my eyes. whew.

okay, okay, have a seat and read
me what you got so far.

I have a real pen if you don't want
to use that quill thing behind
your ear.

oh no, I prefer the quill, but
thank you. so kind.

beer? I've got a lager
and an ale?

tea is fine, if you have any.

by the way,
what's with the numbering,
how about putting a title
on your poems once in a while.