Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't work, put on a red dress.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Sometimes, poems can be tremendous consolation when you're feeling down. I've already mentioned one such poem on this blog, but I thought I'd point out another such. It comes from a poetry anthology (I have a lot of anthologies... I used to really love them), I think Garrison Keillor's Good Poems. Andrews, a house cleaner in Oregon born in 1956, has a no-nonsense attitude towards words. This is, for the record, another poem that my mother loves. While others would disagree with taking the opinion of a non-specialist (my mother) seriously, I think she's a great judge for lots of reasons. Hmmm. That warrents its own post probably, I just wanted to share this poem with anyone who might be feeling a bit deflated.