after Anne R. Allen
This poem is a work of fiction. Any similarities
between this poem and the lives of persons
real or otherwise is purely coincidental.
Shall I draw lofty analogies between thee
and something that falls
just short of your transcendent quality?
Naw, Ima riff on the feels.
In sleep a vision came to me
and it went like this:
It was a dark and stormy night, lights
aflicker, house atremble, ozone in the air
and iron on the tongue to feed
the prickle of gooseflesh
Alone I wandered amid my thoughts, wondering
and exploring my interior landscape.
Peculiar child, prone to daydreaming
and embarrassment and occasional
bullying – pretend it’s happening
to someone else.
A spotted moth, a yellow pencil, a ribbon
from the science fair, a tin pail and a dog
lying in the sun, the smell of fresh-mown
grass, a cell phone pinging in someone
else’s pocket, lions and tigers and bears,
This is a poem about joy, dear
reader, and here is a metaphor for joy
followed by an unpacking or perhaps
belaboring of the metaphor to make sure
you don’t miss it.