who lives next door, you may
know her,
emily dickinson, is
on my porch again.
she's not a pest really,
but she knocks at my door
at odd times,
usually when i have a
dinner guest.
i see her out there
in her pilgrim dress,
her hair tight upon
her head like a dinner roll.
her notepad and pencil
in hand. i know what
she wants. she wants
help with another one
of her poems. i crack
open the door, and say what
up? she says, i need help.
i'm stuck on a title again.
i'm in my underwear, i tell
her, which makes her
blush and close her eyes.
oh dear, oh dear she says.
she looks like she might
faint. hold on i tell her.
i'll go put on some pants
and a shirt.
i let her in and she sits down
on the edge of a chair.
tea? i ask her.
no sugar no cream?
yes, please she says.
so what are your working
titles, i ask her.
No. 919, she says.
good lord, Emily. enough
with the numbering. make up a real
title for crying out loud.
what's the poem about?
well, she says, putting her
finger to her chin, it's about
death and dying, things like
that. getting old, our bleached
bones in the crypt, our souls rising
up into the air in ashes.
yikes. well. i don't know.
that's pretty dark. you really
you should get outside once
in awhile and live a little.
she looks away and shrugs
her small shoulders.
geez, i don't know, i tell her.
titles are tough.
maybe stick with the number
on this one too.
really?
yes, i tell, here's your tea, it's
hot so be careful.
do you want me to read it to
you?
no, really, that's okay. the game
is coming on in a few minutes.
i see a tear start to roll down
her pale thin cheek.
okay, okay. read it for me.
it's not too long is it?
oh no, just forty seven lines or so.
well. okay. i look at my watch.
okay. go.
i want to hear it, honest. read it.
may i stand up and read?
sure, sure. go ahead. i'm just
going to turn on the tv, with
the sound down. but go ahead.
i'm listeing.
poem number, 919, she says
and smiles at me.
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