Do you like it when I call you Snoodlepuss, Snoodlepuss?

I’m going to pretend your poem was in French,

and ‘The soul of an egg / salad sandwich

bought from / the Pentagon’s automat’

was about falling asleep on my shoulder.

I’m going to look a series of websites

in the eye and tell them I won’t back down,

and I will, by nighttime, start typing up

the story that puts the pro in protagonist.

I was aware of all your peculiar

ailments. Canapé Rash. Top Hat Dropsy.

Turtle Soup Intolerance. Limousine

Anxiety. It’s amazing you survived.

I wanted to ask about your silk allergies.

To see if you were coping. Just to see

if you still write poems about Bigfoot

and if that Bigfoot has an Irish name.