Lisa's Lament

So,
You woke up this morn with a hole in your head;
A bedpan was under your hips;
A bouquet of IVs was stuck in each vein
As slobber poured forth from your lips

You haven't a clue how you got in this place,
Of your brain, you've long been bereft;
Your name, once familiar, escapes you just now,
But take heart; we'll work with what's left

You think you were drinking some tea in L.A.;
That's odd, 'cuz we found you up here!
Wand'ring the tundra with nary a coat;
But we'll sort it out, don't you fear

You say you remember a jazz band that irked you,
And a purse of unusual skin
And an odd little key made of brass, with a stamp
That you found lying somewhere within

There there, little lady; you've had a rough day,
Don't bother us all with that sighing
'Bout that freezing sensation you've had all month long,
Most likely, it's those drugs we've been trying

So work with us, child; we know what we're doing,
We're physicians; of that be assured,
If there's anything left in that gourd on your shoulders,
We'll find it, and you will be cured.

Or not.

Eric P. Nichols, 2004

:)

eric

You probably remember the wonderful poem of Lowell's about Bishop with its line about her leaving fragments pinned to the wall waiting for the last perfect word.

But the question is--would Bishop put them on her RR Blog? They seem like the perfect place for me. I am going through a line edit of my memoir now, and elements that are cast offs will probably end up posted here.

And as for your question about the weirdest place I have sold a book--I sold 150 on the infield of a race course, but, motorcycle guy that I am, that doesn't count.

Sometimes garbage should be left there, especially when it came to my writing! :-)