Memo to the President

Dear President Obama,

I think I may have the solution to some of our troubles overseas, a solution that will, I believe, bring our troops home safe without jeopardizing the countries we are trying to help by leaving our work unfinished. A solution that will, unless I am gravely mistaken, smoke out the Taliban, Al Quaida, the Iraqi insurgents, and all the other naughty people in one fell swoop.

Mr. President, I believe that all you require in order to accomplish this is the sound of my son expressing his displeasure with me.

Imagine, if you will, the sound of a tea kettle left to boil. The high-pitched whistle that invades your brain and won’t allow it to do anything else, such as remember how to make the noise stop (NB: turn off the stove, remove the stopper from the kettle). Now imagine that sound twice as high, twice as loud, and going on indefinitely (apparently three year olds do not require the actual drawing of breath in order to supply their lungs with oxygen).

This sound, capable of forcing me to give in to his terrorist demands such as Looney Tunes cartoons, chocolate, and a seventh time around the block when I am ready to fall down from hunger, is not (I hope, oh god I hope) reproducible. As an American and a patriot, I am offering you full access to my son’s wrath. All you need provide is an amplification devise and earplugs for your staff (I would not say no to a pair myself).

Sincerely,
ohgodohgodmakeitstop

Letter to a Lost Friend

(written in verse because these poems are still haunting me)

Hi. How are you?
Last we talked
your father was dying
So… did he?
Are you OK?

Did your husband find work?
Is his ex still trying
to run your life?
Or was it his mother?
(Same difference.)

Sam has gotten so big.
Your daughter must be
practically a teenager
or whatever they call
preteens now.
“Tweens” I guess.

I miss you.
Did I say that already?
But I only have
your old work email
and no idea if you still work there
or even if
you’re back in the country.

So I hope
you still read my blog
and you see this
and think
“maybe she means me”
(I do)
and you call me.