Tabatha Yeatts knows how much
I love Billy Collins.
Tabatha got my name in the
Summer Poem Swap last year and wrote me a poem — a glorious poem — about a discussion with Imaginary Billy Collins.
Imaginary Billy Collins!
Tabatha gets me.
Thank you, Tabatha, for getting me. Thank you for making me cry a little bit when I read this beautiful piece, when I realized you wrote it
for me, that it's mine, and I get to keep this gem and sit down with Imaginary Billy (and you) any time I want to.
Imaginary Billy and Real Tabatha are treasures.
Imaginary Billy and I Discuss the Founding Documents
for Karen
by Tabatha Yeatts
Did you know that Timothy Matlack
is the clerk who transcribed
the Declaration of Independence?
I ask Imaginary Billy Collins,
who is reading the paper
on the sofa across from me.
Imaginary Billy is polite enough
to put down his newspaper
and he looks at me over his glasses,
He did a lovely job of it,
he says. The title is especially attractive,
with all those flourishes.
I know, I say. People had better
handwriting then. Billy hmms in agreement
and goes back to his paper. I wait
until he finishes his article and say,
Did you know that every year
more than a million people come to
the National Archives Building to see it?
Billy raises an eyebrow and says,
I didn't know, but I'm not surprised.
I see it every year, in my dreams,
but not everyone has my imagination.
I'm sitting there thinking about
the million and one people who see it every year
as Billy returns to his reading.
I am nervous about interrupting him again
but I do anyway.
Did you know that the Declaration
and the Bill of Rights and the Constitution
are sealed in titanium casement
filled with argon gas?
And they are kept 22 feet underground
when they're not on display?
And the ink is measured every day
to make sure it isn't fading?
Oh, I do that, Billy says,
finally putting his newspaper down.
With my copy, the one I visit.
Except it's not 22 feet underground
exactly. I keep it in 22 places.
I keep the Preamble in my mouth,
and I tucked the first amendment
into my fingers so it's there while I'm writing.
I put some of the other amendments
in my shoes so I can figure out
where I'm going. I tend to ramble,
you know.
I'm not sure whether it is more polite
to agree with him or disagree
so I make a noncommittal head bobble,
which he seems to approve of.
Where do you keep it?
he asks me.
I feel like it's been camping out
in my tear ducts, I say,
wishing I had a better answer.
But he nods, like that's a
fine answer anyway.
As long as the ink isn't fading, he says.
It's not, I say.
~~~~~~~~~~
