Yeah, I write poetry. Most of it’s pretty bad, I admit, but composing verse is a good exercise for any writer. Poetry demands compression of ideas and images, and a careful choice of every word. So while my poems may not withstand comparison with those of Emily Dickenson or Wallace Stevens, they’ve served a useful purpose. This one I wrote on a dare and though it’s just a trifle I’ve always kind of liked it…
A Pachyderm Not Pink
For nearly thirty years I’ve worn the blue (He flashed a smile—the cynical cop kind), And in that time, I’ve seen a thing or two. Panhandlers, crackheads, ladies of the night— Drunks with strange apocalyptic visions— Such sordid, sorry characters as blight Our city’s parks and haunt its lonely streets. And after midnight when the Moon is full A listener may just discern the bleats Of madness in the round: a comic chant Of zombies, UFOs and elephants. Yes, elephants! Some young woman called to rant Last week of uninvited pachyderms! At three a.m.! I asked, So are they pink? Offended, she reviled me using terms That would have made a veteran sailor blink. No! Gray! she cried. Just one! I’ve tried to tug It out the door but elephants are large, And I’m afraid it’s ruining my brand-new rug! I hung up then and laughed a good long time— (But then he paused, and pursed his lips, and frowned.) Still, just suppose there really was a crime? Trespassing pachyderms? Quite strange, it’s true. But after midnight one must give the strange its due.