Vera

(In which Igor practices his American
In the form of notes to his wife)

Oh Vera I can't complain but
When, when will you write?
This city is strange
And strangely bright
Sooner or later I'll change

Oh Vera my cough is silent
And Sunset is setting up fine
There's work for me here
And here is my work
While we wait for my lungs to dry

Oh Vera tonight I'm lost
What makes me live for this craft?
I'm going nowhere
My music's a bust
Even our neighbors just laugh

Oh Vera we must see a film
I think that it might change my life
Something with garland
Who's down on her luck
The kind of picture I like

Oh Vera I'm full of it now
Who knew that notes could be fun?
I'm counting to 12 and
Then back to one
I feel I'm a writer again

Oh Vera I'm truly content
I'm waiting alone for a friend
A helluva poet
A Hollywood type
Who turns up the words on their end

Oh Vera I'm reading the news
I can do nothing but cry
The opera was summer
An apple just fell
It's funny how well poets lie.