I dreamed that my home was
occupied by poetry-event planners.
They were camped out in a garage-like room with a cement floor.
I tried to use good manners
in dealing with the mob,
helping them schedule jammers
for times that were convenient for them, before
the next cohort of poetry-event planners
arrived. I felt like some weird
old stoner,
and I kept going in and out through the stage door,
always aware of using my best stage manners.
Well, sir, the room was
crawling with railers and ranters,
trying to create a big uproar
with the threat of anyone’s home being occupied by poetry-event planners;
but my lamented old friend Dave
once told me not to get up on ladders,
to be sure to remember what my two feet are for,
and to be discreet and always use such manners
as would have been recommended
by Dear Abby or Anne Landers;
so I was gone, gone, solid gone, gone to the other shore.
My home was occupied by poetry-event planners,
but they were no match for my impeccable manners.
