Note By Ellyssa Pearce

I found a note on a happy day

The air was cool and crisp

Writing in a foreign mind

The voice seemed to have a lisp

From a place that did not resemble

Anything that I have seen

Placed on sheer white paper

The binding sewn at the seams

writes what neither here nor there

And tossed in the weather

The day fun and crazy quick

She found an eagle feather

I liked the note and all its contents

The way she wrote my name

Was all curly and mix match color

It took away the pain

So I took out a pen and sheet

Answered back the questions

The scribbles matching color

And some thoughts for a lesson

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 Song

by Randall Mann

I found my muster station, sir.

My skin is patent leather.

The tourists are recidivists.

This calm is earthquake weather.

I’ve used up all the mulligans.

I’d kill to share a vice.

The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.

The socialite has lice.

The Europe trip I finally took

was rash and Polaroid,

was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam.

And I cannot avoid

the end: I will not die in Paris,

won’t rest for good behind

a painted mausoleum door.

The purser will not find

me mummified beneath your tulle,

and Paris will not burn.

Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.

Come help me pick my urn.