OK, I found the NaPoWriMo site, created and registered this sucky blog, and saw that the prompt for today is “a poem that tells a lie.” I deviated a tiny bit and wrote a poem about a lie told to me recently. Here’s what I got before I absolutely had to go to bed because I’ve got an old friend coming to visit tomorrow:
You tell me that you’ve tried to mail the gun:
four different UPSs, but not one
could do it. And I think you’re lying, yet
it’s not that big of deal; I’m not upset.
Amazed you found it, cleaning, last July,
I’m pleased you’ll even send it. If you’ll try
to get it mailed I do not mind a wait,
as I have lived already twenty-eight
long years without it.
I had such plans for this one, to which I might return at a later date. E.g.:
*the mental calculation made to include a detail (four trips) which would render the fib more “plausible,” yet this detail is absurd: why would one continue wasting time at UPS stores after the first failure? This whole unnecessary fib is more appropriate to a child, which could tie in with the BB gun.
*seeing starlings in the back yard today whilst I did dishes, remembering dad shooting them with his 12-guage, which I was afraid of shooting at the time. How the finding of the BB gun last summer happened when we were cleaning out Dad’s place when he moved to assisted living.
*desire to shoot at said starlings with BB gun, for which own wife chewed out a neighbor man when we moved to the neighborhood
*childhood guilt after having killed “dicky birds” on the power line
*secret wondering if brother is stalling on the mailing because he now wants the BB gun, and how this suspicion or rival claim is also an echo of childhood.