The Poet

The poet sometimes rolled up dollar bills. Yes, she rolled them up and
tied string around them and buried them in the peach colored pot that
was overflowing with Lamb’s Ear in the mauve dining room. And you
wouldn’t have guessed it but that wasn’t the only thing she hid in the
pots in her house—she also had a village of tiny men and women living
in the basement and occasionally the cat would knock the cactus pot
down and the little men and women would go screaming, running all over
the house until their tiny little faces were bright red. Some of them
would end up at the liquor cabinet above the stove but the poet would
find others later. She would be putting flamingo curlers in her hair
in the morning and then she would catch a glimpse of one of the tiny
women who would also be putting flamingo curlers in her hair only the
curlers were much smaller and the tiny woman would vanish almost as
soon as the poet saw her. For this the poet could write. She could sit
down at the typewriter in the beige sun room and type, type, type.

—Emily Haight, Milwaukee, WI