Sunday Morning
by: Billy Collins
Opening a book of poems
about flowers,
the cat amuses herself
while she waits for me to wake up.
Poetry has been distracting me all day. Revising poems. Arranging poems. Reading poems. Revising those poems again. If I had a wealthy patron, I'd have zero problems just staring out my window and scribbling in my journal for extended periods. I truly can amuse myself for hours and hours with poetry.
Tonight, I performed in a show at the library where I (you guessed it!) read poetry again, as well as acted in skits, sang, and told stories. I was lucky enough to share the stage with some really talented writers, musicians, and actors, as well.
Near the end of the show (theme: imperfection), I told a story about my sister and read the poem I wrote for her funeral. As soon as I started speaking, I knew it was a mistake. I could feel the emotion climbing into my throat to choke me, which it did. I could barely speak by the end of it, and I felt like an idiot.
After the show, everyone was incredibly kind to me, with hugs and thank yous and words of encouragement. And I still felt like an idiot.
Next time, Saint Marty is going to talk about something safe. Like politics.
Haunted
by: Martin Achatz
I wonder if my sister's ghost
gets tired of my visits to her
grave, rolls over, pretends
to be resting in peace when
she sees my car pull through
the cemetery gates.
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