Unforseen Problems with Large Cups

This morning I woke up to find Bobby Vinton
had moved into a studio apartment
in my head. He sang all day but only one song
about a girl I know. Ever since I met her
my poems have sounded like stories
that overuse the word become.

Mr. Vinton I understand
she wore blue velvet I was there.
I saw her lit by foreground lamps
over a smoky game of beer pong
at a party I mostly remember. Her smile
was resplendent. Made you consider
what it would feel like to miss her.
I dread the day I miss her.

Mr. Vinton I’m going
to file a complaint with the landlord
if you do not quiet down.
Many of the neighbors have thrown their windows open
to let the summer evening in and I’m afraid
because your singing brings them to
their windows—so starry eyed.
Please, Mr. Vinton—
I have not been able
to get my reading done I just
can’t think with you
singing about rapture
or whatever
and I’ve almost fallen out my own window
once or twice because
your voice has charmed me so.

Mr. Vinton you’re a menace—
crooning long into the night as in
the one that was bluer than velvet I know.
I know. She’s everywhere.

 

By Daniel Godwin

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