One Friday in Sept.,
Mr. Poe went to bed in his clothes.
But this soul rarely slept,
But this soul rarely slept,
making do with one haphazard doze.
He'd forgotten, no doubt,
He'd forgotten, no doubt,
to slip out of his semi-brogue shoes.
(Had he done so, at worst
(Had he done so, at worst
he'd hav'd managed to, fitfully, snooze.)
"I'm too drain'd to disrobe,
to drop trou, to get fully undress'd --
to but take off this button-down shirt.
Yet I do need my rest.
If perhaps I start slowly --
say, doffing my milit'ry cap --
then might Itzpapalotl*
kowtow -- and allow me a nap...?"
* Aztec goddess of the stars
One Friday in Sept.,
Uly Poe went to bed in his clothes.
Next morning he wept
as he rued the decision he chose.
"Elsewhere, I might dare
to get shut of those earmuffs I got
in my stocking last Christmas.
But here in Cape Fear...? I fear not."
(One advantage of earmuffs:
they Saturday morn's ruckus muffle.
Neighbors running young Russells,
the garbage men's recycling scuffle,
all fail to arouse,
notwithstanding one lies fully dress'd.
Which bodes well -- as, unrested,
one's gestes might just lead to arrest.
On Friday in Sept.,
if a poet's in bed in his clothes...
(More to come: a work in progress)
