I said she said.

I said she said.

She said

‘Does it ever get lonely up on that cloud?’

I said

‘What?’

She said

‘You know like in that poem

By that guy

Writing about daffodils and stuff.’

I said

‘You mean Wordsworth?’

‘Yes.’She said.

So I said

‘Why do you ask?’

She said

With a smile,

‘Well, isn’t it a little protean

And whimsical to be seriously regarded.’

I said

‘You mean me?

So you know poetry then

Underlying themes and such?’

She said

‘Do you?’

I said

‘A little, there is always more

To it than meets the eye.’

She said

‘No shit Sherlock

You mean the way that

Nature and memory

Are represented

And co-exist at the

Heart of the Romantic Poets.

Not to mention…’

‘But you will.’

She smiled

‘I will

Mention the way

Beauty and nature are praised

As humankind’s greatest blessing.’

I said

‘It is a recurring theme

She nodded

‘It is.’

‘Why do you ask?’

I repeated

She said

‘Why did I ask what?’

I said.

‘Does it ever get lonely up on that cloud.’

She said

‘Ah…

Well I guess it seems you have

A kaleidoscope of reflections

In your poetry.

Narcissistic ramblings

Drunken rants

A ‘feel sorry for yourself’

Recital of delusions.’

I said

She said

‘I always do.’

I said

‘Even when it hurts?’

She purred

‘But it didn’t. Did it?’

I said

‘No, because you know that I know

It is close to the truth

And I give less than a shit.’

She laughed.

‘I guessed that

From the look of the empty glass.

It kinda speaks to me of vacillation

Right there all by itself.’

I said

‘Cute lines.

You want to join me?’

She said

‘Sure, I like the view

You can see the sky

Through the mirror.’

I said,

‘Yeah, that's why

I chose to sit here.’