Poetic Encounter

I went for a walk by the frozen Lake Michigan this afternoon and encountered the ghost of Lord Byron. Byron was wearing just a silk puffy sleeved white shirt and a pair of gabardine slacks.

I said, “You are lucky to be so unaffected by the weather.”

Lord Byron said, “I would give it all up to be affected by the weather.

I said, “I’m thinking of moving to the Bahamas in an effort to keep warm.”

Lord Byron said, “Yes, but when one problem is erased, another raises its head. Our lives are spent in the endless playing of whack-a-mole.”

I said, “Still, I can’t help to try and make myself comfortable.”

Lord Byron said, “You’ll do what you must. While entwisted with your mortal coil, all seems important…and in the end you’re revealed to be lost in the headlights of the divine hypnosis.”

I said, “It’s hard to talk with you. You refute everything I say with your poetic musings.”

Lord Byron said, “I can’t help what I do. I’m assembled as a poet. I’m a factory that only produces heightened insights.”

I said, “I understand. I seem built to have strange experiences.”

Lord Byron winked and said, “We are all accomplished at one thing. Without it we are reduced to protoplasm.”

Just then the earth cracked open and Satan poked out his head. Satan said, “Would you like to join me for a late lunch? I’ve cooked up a delicious lobster fricassee.”

I said, “Sure.”

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