Telling me to write a poem to a
YouTube song is about as useful
as telling me to stop loving you.
First of all, the damn ad comes on,
distorting from the get-go whatever
the song might have been. And
then the damn drums, like the
little boy who is supposed to play
for Jesus, but loud drums make
the baby cry, so what will we do
for a savior after that?
And what will we do, you and I?
Who will save us from what’s ahead,
the stove left on, the Silver Alert,
which we joke about, like its Florida’s
folly, but we both know we will need it
someday, if you get lost and I can’t find you,
on the way to Fort DeSoto or Sanibel. Who
will save us from this damn repetitive tune,
over and over again? I hope I’ll forget it
completely, today, this morning, before
breakfast, and not have it stuck in my head,
like “Three Times A Lady,” or God forbid,
“Come, they told me, pa rump a pum pum.”