I See a Red Door (And I Painted It That Way) 

Now Listening to: “Love Shack” by the B-52’s

Alternatively, “Paint it Black,” The Rolling Stones 

Let me share some good news before Word Raccoon jumps in here. She’s not happy with me today. 

I am pleased to report that Red Door Magazine out of Copenhagen is publishing my poem “Grecian Urn, Busted.”

It had been stewing in me for decades, something about that chase, that damn urn, but how to approach it? 

First I re-read Keats’s poem, but still I worried that maybe I hadn’t done enough “research.” Then Word Raccoon said “Please! Shove over. I know where we’re headed.” Before I knew it, she had plumbed my submerged discomfort. Within minutes, she had perfectly captured what had bothered me about it for years. (I don’t want to spoil the poem by going into it here.)

The editor was kind enough to say they “love” my poem. Who could ask for more? 

Publication date TBA. 

Oh, and in case it isn’t clear, the title is a riff on the iconic lyrics by the B-52’s in “Love Shack.” 

Tin Roof

Rusted! 

While I can’t say what the songwriter(s) meant, to me while yes, it likely literally describes that “funky little shack,” I’ve always thought it meant more. My title certainly does.

I was about to Drema-splain the title, but I think it’s likely clear(ish), yes?

Word Raccoon is asking if it’s her turn now. By all means, my impatient alter ego.

She is not happy with me this morning.

First of all, I have not immediately agreed to go write elsewhere because it’s cold! And because it’s before daylight! And we have no idea what the streets look like and that bothers me.

Then there’s the matter of the Coke Zero. Apparently I forgot to put a fresh bottle in the fridge and she only had one serving this morning.

Why would she want a cold drink anyway? This is hot tea weather! 

And don’t think I’ve forgotten your stunt with the Coke Zero yesterday morning, WR: I don’t know how someone manages to spill a drink onto a vertical TV. Static electricity shock my ass!

The overnight oats were too runny to suit her, though I took them from her and heated them in the microwave before adding walnuts, thus thickening them and making them warm, which placated her some. 

Yes, she says, but the frozen strawberries are what made them too thin and she wants to know just why I used frozen strawberries. Fresh are coming today, you picky butt. 

There’s also the pile of pink chair parts on the floor. She says I’ve been promising for weeks to assemble it, but have I? Have I? 

I took it out of the box yesterday. That’s something. (Yesterday was a domestic goddess day, and today threatens to be one too if I don’t get out of here before my to-do list overtakes me.)

My hands are not enjoying the cold. WR says there’s a pill we can take to help with that on bad days. 

Is it a bad day? What qualifies? 

You’re allowed to take up to two a day. Why are you stockpiling them like they’re precious gold?, she hisses.

Because I don’t want to take anything I don’t have to. We must protect the writing machinery! 

She scoffs and says they’re mild, dum dum. 

And another thing, she says, our clothes are too big now; we are tripping over our pajamas. We’ve lost a size. The doctor said if we got this inflammation under control we would likely lose some weight without trying. 

We are not sure we like this. I mean health, sure. And we miss some of our old clothes, what we could do before that we haven’t been able to for some time, so it’s worth it. 

We will even admit that we like the aesthetics of a thinner self for us. But we feel so sad for those who get their self-worth solely from their size, for pete’s sake. We have unsubscribed from that nonsense, and we don’t want anyone to think otherwise.

You know what, WR, I don’t have time for this right now. 

Sure, I have a list of “I really ought to” items today waiting for me here at home. But also, nothing that can’t wait a few hours. 

And we only wrote one poem yesterday, WR. It has a decent core, sure, but our efforts were not stellar yesterday. Poetry admin is not poetry making, love. 

That’s what I’m saying, she says. 

Oh. Then we agree. 

According to social media, the cafe is actually open today and serving chili for lunch. I could be persuaded to go out, I suppose, WR, if I don’t have to wash the hair until this evening.

She says as long as she’s wearing earrings, she doesn’t care what I do with the hair.. 

Fine. Ponytail incoming. 

P.S. I did paint a door red on a house once, and it was pretty.