Humor

by Sally Sheklow

POE ME

With thanks to Edgar, evermore

Once upon a morning dawning,

while I stumbled, stiff and yawning,

Over many a quaint and curious volume

of lesbian lore-

While my love still lay there sleeping,

suddenly there came a beeping,

Something birdlike gently peeping, peeping

from the downstairs floor.

"'Tis the smoke alarm," I muttered,

"beeping from the downstairs floor-

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was hot,

not yet September;

And each sunbeam like an ember

warmed the day while still she snore.

Eagerly I then descended, down the stairs

to have it ended;

Problems much worse I have mended,

mended as a dykely chore.

For a strong and competent woman

can do any household chore,

To prove her worth for evermore.

And the brightly proud and certain rustling

of our rainbow curtain

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic

pride I've often felt before;

So that now, to still the bleating

smoke alarm I stood repeating,

"'Tis a battery it's needing,

Any dyke could this restore.

Just a battery it's needing.

Any dyke could this restore.

This it is, and nothing more."

Startled by its green light blinking,

I approached the clamor thinking,

"Doubtless I will find a batt'ry

in the cluttered kitchen drawer."

Luckily, I quickly found it

with the shrink wrap still around it,

well aware of how profound it

was to find what I looked for.

Here I fetched the small stepladder,

and I deftly did the chore.

Then it beeped and beeped some more.

Presently my soul grew stronger,

hesitating then no longer,

"Smoke alarm," said I, confronting,

"I must stop your rude uproar;

"For the fact is you are keeping

me from any further sleeping

with your loud incessant beeping, beeping

through the downstairs door."

Up I flipped its plastic tab and

the new batt'ry from it tore.

This I did and nothing more.

Surely, now, without its power,

it won't spoil my quiet hour,

Nor disrupt the peaceful shower

my tense muscles would adore.

But the racket was unbroken,

and the ruckus gave no token.

And the only words there spoken

to the screeching troubadour

Were my muttered, "I will fix you!"

to which the beep replied full score.

Only this and nothing more.

Now my hand upon it twisting.

Its round plastic case resisting,

screeching, beeping beeps no mortal

ears were meant to hear before.

Not the least obeisance made it,

while the havoc unabated

prompted me to deeply hate it,

and its swift repair forswore.

I would be the smoke alarm butch

and repair the thing, therefore.

Still it beeped and beeped some more.

All my soul within me burning,

I resumed my twisting, turning;

Wrenched it from its socket beeping,

somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely this is

not a job for wimps or prisses-

Something very much amiss is,

I'll this mystery explore;

Let my heart be still a moment

and this mystery explore."

This I thought and nothing more.

Tiny print upon the plastic,

forcing visual gymnastic

to decipher why the screech

still pulsed insanely from its core.

But my eyes were getting teary,

and the noise had made me weary,

Hence no answer to my query

and no silence furthermore.

With no answer to my query

and no silence furthermore,

I informed it, "This is war!"

I would have to be the master

to avert this loud disaster,

Beeping fast now beeping faster,

how my nerves were getting sore.

I, my blood now boiling hotter,

with the ire of Sappho's daughter,

Plunged it in the toilet's water,

death by drowning soon in store.

Gleeful my anticipation

at its drowning soon in store-

'Twould be beeping nevermore.

Bubbly beeping pierced my ear, it

galled me keenly then to hear it;

I would have to commandeer it

to some deeper, harsher shore.

To the kitchen I did take it,

tempted then to oven bake it,

Hard it would be to mistake it,

there would have to be some gore.

There was no way to resolve it,

not without a little gore-

I pitched it out the kitchen door.

Yet no surcease was forthcoming,

from outside the beep kept drumming;

To my violent urge succumbing,

I flung wide the kitchen door.

"Wretch!" I cried and grasped a cleaver,

acting like Sigourney Weaver,

Whacked it in a frenzied fever,

then I grabbed a two-by-four.

Smashed its little plastic guts out

with a heavy two-by-four,

Stepped inside and slammed the door.

Despite how violently we scuffled,

still the beeper sits unruffled,

And its horrid noise unmuffled

by the cleaver, board, or door.

No repentance for its evil,

nor my morning's rude upheaval,

Hopeless is my pride's retrieval;

this last wounds me to the core-

That a smoke alarm could beat me,

pierces deep into my core.

Still it beeps outside my door.

Any dyke who's self respecting

would this problem be correcting,

And continue vivisecting

till she'd quietude restore.

But I, spirit fully daunted,

failed to quash the beep that taunted,

And forever will be haunted

like a wounded matador.

Haunted always, for the tattered

smoke alarm beyond my door

Keeps on beeping-evermore!

Sally Sheklow struggles to take life seriously. Send your poetic fan mail to sally@wymprov.com