May 2016
Penelope is sitting at the kitchen table.
She has a large manila envelope spilled
out across the red plastic surface.
There are about 50 blank greeting cards,
the fronts of these have pictures of butterflies,
palm trees, puppies, strawberry patches, assorted
flowers and birds, and artist’s renderings of quiet places
in nature.
Penelope is writing things down on a yellow legal pad
and contemplating the art on the fronts of the blank cards.
Penelope is working.
About once a month, the Renaissance Greeting Card Co.
sends one of these manila envelopes full of blank cards for her
to ponder.
Sometimes while she ponders,
she drinks wine.
Other pondering sessions require ginger ale
or coffee.
She tells me that the wine is the best lubricant for
the ponderings of wholesale sentiments and she writes
one down on her legal pad.
When she has turned each blank into, what she believes to be, a
suitable greeting card, we will sit together and number the blanks
with black marker, I will type up the sentiments and match them to their
corresponding blank, we will stuff these into the supplied return envelope
and mail the whole mess back to Renaissance Greeting Card Co.
A few weeks later, Penelope will receive a check in the mail.
I am in the bedroom.
I have a little corner desk set up in there.
On this desk, is a typewriter, an ashtray, and a tennis ball.
Sometimes, if I run out of ideas, I’ll chuck the tennis ball at the wall
and catch it on the return bounce for a while.
Usually, I drink coffee while I do the chucking, sometimes it’s
whiskey.
I write stories about bank robberies, diamond heists, or other
tales of daring do.
Sometimes I write prose poems
about what Penelope and I do
on a Wednesday afternoon.
When I have enough of these to fill a manila envelope
or two, I send them off to various editors/publishers of
magazines/rags I have found that serve a particular
audience for these sorts of writings.
Sometimes I get a check in the mail,
sometimes I don’t.
But, there’s always another Wednesday afternoon.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
She has a large manila envelope spilled
out across the red plastic surface.
There are about 50 blank greeting cards,
the fronts of these have pictures of butterflies,
palm trees, puppies, strawberry patches, assorted
flowers and birds, and artist’s renderings of quiet places
in nature.
Penelope is writing things down on a yellow legal pad
and contemplating the art on the fronts of the blank cards.
Penelope is working.
About once a month, the Renaissance Greeting Card Co.
sends one of these manila envelopes full of blank cards for her
to ponder.
Sometimes while she ponders,
she drinks wine.
Other pondering sessions require ginger ale
or coffee.
She tells me that the wine is the best lubricant for
the ponderings of wholesale sentiments and she writes
one down on her legal pad.
When she has turned each blank into, what she believes to be, a
suitable greeting card, we will sit together and number the blanks
with black marker, I will type up the sentiments and match them to their
corresponding blank, we will stuff these into the supplied return envelope
and mail the whole mess back to Renaissance Greeting Card Co.
A few weeks later, Penelope will receive a check in the mail.
I am in the bedroom.
I have a little corner desk set up in there.
On this desk, is a typewriter, an ashtray, and a tennis ball.
Sometimes, if I run out of ideas, I’ll chuck the tennis ball at the wall
and catch it on the return bounce for a while.
Usually, I drink coffee while I do the chucking, sometimes it’s
whiskey.
I write stories about bank robberies, diamond heists, or other
tales of daring do.
Sometimes I write prose poems
about what Penelope and I do
on a Wednesday afternoon.
When I have enough of these to fill a manila envelope
or two, I send them off to various editors/publishers of
magazines/rags I have found that serve a particular
audience for these sorts of writings.
Sometimes I get a check in the mail,
sometimes I don’t.
But, there’s always another Wednesday afternoon.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
The second poem about nothing.
