Today’s poem — or attempt at a poem — is an homage to Emily Dickinson. Emily as mother…of my fourteen year old?
Here’s her original:
I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it’s true —
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe —
The Eyes glaze once — and that is Death —
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.
She likes a look of Agony,
It’s the truest look she knows —
The boys that text
My girl, no likelihood to throw —
Her eyes roll up — I guess that’s No —
Cooperation not her fight
And the purple highlights in her hair
So gorgeous in a snit.
Smiley face here. (Remember, it doesn’t have to be good.)