A lady calls out of the blue
On Christmas Eve
Asks me about a poem I wrote
About Christmas in Minnesota.
She asks if it’s real,
Meaning, I guess, if the poem
Is based on actual events
Like a made for TV movie.
Sure, I lie,
And drink some whiskey-laced eggnog.
I thought so, she says
In a reverent tone.
She said she made copies of the poem.
She owned a flower shop
And sent it out with bouquets
Around Christmas time
Never asking my permission, of course.
But what the hell
How many poets have groupies
Calling them up at odd hours
Just to say Merry Christmas?
