Crooked Rhyme

"The poet reads/His crooked rhyme."--"Bleecker Street," as sung by Simon and Garfunkel, 1964. This blog is dedicated to the poems of Kelley Dupuis.

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Location: Washington, D.C., United States

I love a rainy night, but never cared much for the late Eddie Rabbitt. I'm a writer and editor by trade, weekend painter and one hell of a cook by avocation. I make a fabulous daquiri using Ernest Hemingway's recipe. I love classical music and jazz when I'm at home, classic rock when I'm barreling up the interstate at 70 mph. I have a Trek road bike and a Cannondale mountain bike. I turned 53 on Oct. 12, 2008. Peanut butter goes great with coffee. My favorite pianists are Glenn Gould and Thelonious Monk. I've lived in Europe, South America, Africa and Russia. I speak a little Russian. I can say the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish. I know how to make feijoada, the national dish of Brazil. I once drove in a demolition derby. I love baseball, but I bear the cross of being a San Diego Padres fan. I hate cellphones. I like good Scotch, quality cigars, Frank Sinatra and delicatessen fare. I collect books. I'm a lousy chess player. Mozart is God.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Having Amadeus Euthanised

The needle was curved. (Why was the needle curved?)
The vet daubed the spot with alcohol where
In a moment he would administer the overdose.
Why bother with alcohol? In a minute my little cat
Would be dead – no danger of infection there.
I asked for a plastic bag. They were nicely obliging, but
When I got home and opened the box, look at this:
They’d given me a clear one. Great. This was the sight
I’d hoped to be spared: him, curled up, still warm,
But not breathing. Before proceeding any further,
I put down the shovel to go get a black one. Glad.

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