giving Emily advice

my neighbor,

Emily Dickinson, lives

below me.

maybe you've heard of her.

the spinster

from New England.

at night i hear

her typing

on her manual

typewriter.

the snapping of the keys,

the bell on the carriage

return.

i can smell the candles

that she burns.

sometimes she'll

stop by with a handful

of new poems,

the ones not stuffed beneath

her mattress,

and ask me to critique

them.

she usually leaves

crying, after i've lectured her

and used a red ink pen

to thoroughly

edit her work.

do you have to rhyme

every other line? who are you,

Dr. Suess? Biggy Smalls?

i tell her she has to get

out of the house more

let her hair down.

go dancing, do some shots,

meet some guys.

that bun on top of her

head is so 1860. let it

go, i tell her.

and that dress, geeze

marie, does your grandmother

know you're wearing

the clothes she was

buried in?

she's very sensitive, and

doesn't take criticism too well.

but she's my friend,

my neighbor and we both

love poetry.

although, what she's

writing has no shot at

being published, not yet

at least.

but i'll get her there at some point.