It’s no Gashlycrumb Tinies, but the point is I wasn’t going for that, anyway.
I’ve been having the most interesting, intriguing, and ridiculous dreams lately. Last night, and I was medicine-free, mind you, I dreamed that I was a poet, of sorts, and that I was neighbors to a house.
Well, I should say, House. Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House.
In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope.
That’s right. An envelope.
(It is a buyer’s market, right?)
At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior.
Except, instead of paint, the House had asked specifically for poetry.
So, I was writing, in very large and tall letters of what appeared to be a scratchy, knockoff version of Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies script the following stanza:
Find a snake in the grass,
cut him back with the lawn.
Though, he’d make a good pet
if you cut him back young.
Lovely, isn’t it, just lovely.
For whatever reason, that little stanza of near nonsense has haunted me, today, until I was finally forced to write out a full poem. If that’s indeed what I’ve written.
I mean, it has nagged, nagged, nagged me.
I finally gave in. About an hour, ago.
I hope you somewhat like it. At the moment, in case you’re wondering, it remains untitled.
Find a snake in the grass
cut him back with the lawn.
Though he’d make a good pet
if you cut him back young.
He’d feed on your whispers
at the end of each day.
If he can’t have the yard,
he’ll take the shed and the rake.
He won’t need a lot;
he’s accustomed to lack.
Just make sure he sees You
much more than your back.
And dear God, never touch him,
don’t let him curl up your arm,
don’t let him smile at your smile,
don’t let him warm
up to you or your family.
That’s an old trick of his.
Trust your eyes, first, then yourself.
And remember that this
is above all, a snake, in the grass
on your lawn,
and even if you did
cut him back while he’s young,
the whole point of a pet
is to know who is The Master.
Give a pet love with distance
or else it’s disaster.
And if, by this point, a pet
snake seems a bit much.
Do me a favor, then,
and keep your yard cut.
I, of course, didn’t get this far in the dream. I woke up (rather, was awakened by Max, who was a rude dog this morning, if I do say so myself). I only managed to get that first stanza “painted.”
So, I, sadly, do not know if the House even liked what I was doing. I’m not even sure if I liked what I was doing.
Amanda, at least, was kind enough to say it was, and I quote, “[quite] Shel Silverstein of [me].” I will wear that as a small token of genuine appreciation for what I know to be a true artist’s spirit, of which I possess, and in spades.
Rhyme and meter…well, they don’t belong in the game of spades. Or hearts, or Gin Rummy, or Old Maid.
Now, deal.
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