A lady calls out of the blue

On Christmas Eve

Asks me about a poem I wrote

About Christmas in Minnesota.

She asks if it’s real,

Meaning, I guess, if the poem

Is based on actual events

Like a made for TV movie.

Sure, I lie,

And drink some whiskey-laced eggnog.

I thought so, she says

In a reverent tone.

She said she made copies of the poem.

She owned a flower shop

And sent it out with bouquets

Around Christmas time

Never asking my permission, of course.

But what the hell

How many poets have groupies

Calling them up at odd hours

Just to say Merry Christmas?