Sylvia’s A Talented Poet, And Doesn’t She Know It

By Anne Sullivan

Sylvia turned her head away from the TV and spoke for the first time in over an hour. “I’ve been wasting my time,” she said.
“Wasting your time doing what?” I asked, turning another page in the New York Times.
“Doing nothing worthwhile,” she answered. “I need to earn more money.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll win a Talent Contest.”
“Just what talent do you possess?”
Sylvia thought for a minute. “Let’s see, singers win most of the contests.”
“You couldn’t keep a tune if someone gave it to you.”
“Dancers win a lot.”
“You have four left feet.”
“I guess that leaves out acrobatics, too,” she said. “It should be very simple. I’m sure all those talent shows are looking for contestants. And, being a dog, I’ve got an advantage right there. All I have to do is think of something I’m better at than anyone else.”
“Try complaining.”
Sylvia glared at me. “Surely you jest,” she said. “Wait a minute. I know what my talent is. It’s poetry.”
“You’re going to recite poetry in a talent show? Whose poetry, may I ask?”
“Why, mine, of course. I am, after all, a poet of great renown.”
“I guess you are – in Swingle Canyon.”
“To prove it, I’m going to write a poem now if you’ll give me pen and paper.”
I did so and she was silent, lying on the floor and occasionally writing something. After an hour, through the trials and travails of one entire soap opera, I couldn’t resist rising to look over her shoulder.
This is what she wrote:
It’s funny
How important is money.
I yearn
To earn
A healthy sum
To buy food and rum.
“Sylvia!” I exclaimed, “You don’t drink rum.”
“I know, but it rhymes. Poems gotta rhyme. Oh, good, that’s my next couplet.”
“It’s fine
To rhyme.
I want to be
A celebrity.
Not from here
But near.
On a talent show
I would go.
My poems I would read.
The prize I really need.
Isn’t it great?
‘Tis my fate.
My poems are wise
Enough to win the prize.
Everyone will vote for
me.
Who could resist – gee –
A poet who’s a dog,
Never in a fog.
I won’t have a break-
down.
It’ll just be a shakedown
Cruise
That’s news.
On TV I’ll be a hit.
If not, I’ll have a fit.
I can win.
It’s not a sin.
Isn’t it funny?
I’ll win lots of money.
And there’ll be a new celebrity.
Me!

Sylvia’s A Talented Poet, And Doesn’t She Know It