helping my neighbor Emily

i see my

friend Emily Dickinson,

who lives next door

at the elevator.

she has her cat

on a leash

which she cleverly

named number nine.

i almost mistake her

for a nun.

she's wearing all black

and has

a doily around her neck.

hey, i say.

hello sir, she says back.

she looks glum.

is everything

ok?

i ask her.

we both stare up at 

the lights

of the impossibly

slow elevator.

she shrugs and says,

i guess so.

i'm stuck on a poem.

i shake my head.

you're thinking too much

i tell her.

over thinking gets

you nowhere.

you just have to let

them rip.

blood and guts, 
Emily.

put a knife in them and

make them

scream.

she puts her hands over

her ears and closes

her eyes.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

look, i'll stop by later

and you can run a few

of them

by me, okay?

thanks, she says.

i don't know what i would

do without you.

you're such a kind

gentleman.

i'll put some tea on.