Infected by Light Verse

A rational deformation that should have been left in the drawer to ferment into something deranged as well as deformed, this is instead a poème d’occasion. As Ikkyū once said, “Ask nothing from words on a page.”

My typically slothful thoughts
have simmered on the back burner
for so long that they’re overcooked.
I should have undercooked them
sooner with gracious and, yes, 
infectious spice of chitchat. 
Yours showed up in my mailbox,
some days ago I think it was,
which makes me feel an ingrate
for not sending back congratulations
or greetings—a regular malfeasoner.
Now, all breastbeat & handwrung,
uncongratulating & ungreeting,
I ask what-ho from the rialto. 

To Malcolm Ritchie (cannibalized from an email).

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