This is the last prose poem, and then two thereafter.
This is-- I just had this title in my head
for a while, "First Person Fabulous."
And so then I had to concoct a little scenario
about the first person and the third person.
So I ultimately decided that the first person
lived underneath the third person's tongue.
"First Person Fabulous."
"First person fumed and fizzed under a Third person's tongue
while Third person slumped at the diner counter,
talking as usual to no one.
Third person thought First person
was the toilet paper trailing from third person's shoe.
The tiara Third person once wore in a dream to a funeral.
First person thought Third person
was a layer of tar on a gorgeous pink Nautilus,
a foot on a fountain, a tin hiding the macaroons.
And First person was that Nautilus, that fountain,
that pile of macaroons.
Sometimes First person broke free on first dates
with a Second person.
And then there was the delicious rush of I this and I that,
but then no phone call, and for weeks Third person wouldn't
let First person near anyone.
Poor First person, currently she was
exiled to the world of postcards,
having a lovely time.
And even then, that beast of a Third person
used the implied I just to drive First person crazy.
She felt like the television staring at the remote,
begging to be turned on.
She had so many things she wanted to say.
If only she could survive on her own,
she'd make Third person choke on herself.
And when the detectives arrived and all eyes were finally
on her, she'd cry out, I did it, I did it.
Yes, darlings, it was me."
[LAUGHTER]