Now Playing: “Hey There Delilah,”  Plain White T’s

Besides Word Raccoon, I had another co-writer yesterday for a bit. A 7-year-old girl whose mother owns the store next to the coffeehouse asked me what I was doing.

“I’m writing,” I said, but I had switched to the home page when she glanced at my computer so as not to scorch the little dear’s eyeballs. (I don’t think she can read much yet, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.) 

“You are not,” she said.

I told her I was, but that my writing was “private.” We discussed how sometimes you’re not ready or willing to share what you’re writing and that’s okay. 

I told her I was writing poetry. She didn’t know what that was.

“Roses are red, violets are blue.” I said the whole thing.

“I know that one,” she said. 

She wanted to write a poem, too, so she typed her name on my laptop and dictated the rest of her poem to me. Part of it was:

Fries are yellow.

Cars can be any color.

She waved goodbye when her mother came out and the girl called me “the lady who writes poems.”

Writing with her was my favorite part of the day. 

Before and after she kept me company, Word Raccoon and I wrote poems (and poemettes) that were certainly not for tender eyes:

– Even Her (I might print this one just to shred it with my bare hands. Backspacing is not enough for my ire.) 

– Line, Please (Self-explanatory, duckies.) 

– Five Sacred Minutes (That was my time co-writing) 

– These Bows are Made for Walking (Bows, boots. Whatever. You know what they do. ) 

– (I wrote one with a title that was 41 words long as a joke. The title IS the poem and it’s also pissed.) 

– Bet You Were Naked When I Wrote This (Metaphorically, naturally. Unless?)

– Congratulations on Your Assignment (The cosmic dice have spoken, darling.) 

– Welcome to Me, the Accidental Songstress of Longing (Lucky me. Erryday.) 

– Bitter (redacted) with a Lyricist’s Ear 

– The Lady or the Lager (Inspired by the short story of a similar name, one of my mother’s favorite stories.)

– Meta Breakdown in Aisle Five (I would never. Just on paper, loves. That’s where all good drama belongs.) 

– Big River (Rio…river…get it? About Beth from Good Girls. And me warning Rio about her.)

– One More Glass of “Eff It,” Please (Do I really need to explain?) 

– Love Letters Disguised as Literary Wrecking Balls (Eight emaciated lines that want to do the title proud but just aren’t yet.) 

– Choose Your Lose (I can’t remember what this one is about.)

Out of those, probably only two are capable of breathing on their own at this point.

Most of the poems are in the “in progress” file. 

Word Raccoon says we’re being too hard on the poems, but I don’t want to give the impression I think I’m spinning gold. I know when something is still finding its way and when it has found its voice.

Does all of this poem making even mean anything? 

I’d like to think so. 

Remember, I’m the “lady” who writes poems, the one small children offer Skittles to and grace my keyboard with their sticky fingers. Which honestly, I loved. 

I’m getting published some and I’m grateful for it. Let someone else hold the coals. 

In the meantime, someone tell the title it’s an effing liar. 

My eyes are still sore. 

Very. 

I’m probably not supposed to say so.

Fuck that.