Sonnet – "For The Divine Miss Em"

"Get a job, hippie!”

Because I could not connect to Lyft, a Buick stopped for me

“Hello, I’m your driver,” said Emily.

“Tell me now, good sir, where should I take you?”

“No worries, ma’am, just go forth leisurely.

Plot my destination somewhere new.

You’re no stranger to the unknown, I see.”

She guffawed so hard, I think she turned blue

As soon as I gave her my parody.

She said, “Your name is what? I not know who.”

“Of course not, I’m merely a nobody.

I heard a fly buzz, and that’s when I knew

My path was clear to immortality

I ape your verse, I’ll get a view or two

Think of it as a real cosmic follow

From a fellow who is feeling hollow

I try to stay afloat, but just wallow.”

She shot back: “Your tears I cannot swallow—

You know what?! I’m not giving away any more of my stuff. Write your own goddamn poem, stop borrowing my crap, you literary worm, you! Seriously.

You have Substack.

I had a goddamn piece of parchment paper and then had to physically send that piece of paper by foot or mail or carrier vulture to another actual human being.

There was no save file. No document dump. No transfer from C: to USB.  Piece of paper. That’s it. No copy. Nothing. No. Thing.

You get to stealth edit. I didn’t even have an eraser. You get to upload jpegs. What the fuck’s upload? What’s a fucking jaypeg? Don’t ask me. How should I know?

You get likes and comments. I got a letter to the editor. Once, I think.

Oh, and it’s not like I was out partying. There were no pool hangouts with John Mayer and Adele. I didn’t get drunk one night with Fergie and puke in the back of Usher’s limo. Nah, none of that. No entourage. No Emily on TMZ or in the Daily Mail for all the world to see.

It was me on my bony literate ass 24/7 holed up in some godforsaken New England farmhouse. Me and my parchment paper and that damned quill pen that I can never seem to find.

Emily D’s crib and writing hub

So you just fuck right off back to Substack Notes and send out some stupid .gif or whatever. Go! Go on! Piss me off with this: ‘Oh, I’m so sad. I’m not as talented as you. No one reads me. Blah blah blah’ bullshit. Get a job, hippie!”

(laughter emanates from the eerie mist)

“Wait, you serious, Em? You really pissed?”

“Gotcha!” she shouts. “I just couldn’t resist.”

“O Em’ly, you so cray-cray. I insist…

…that you’re always A-OK on my list!”

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