I never get tired of one of the poems in After Ikkyu, by Jim Harrison. Here’s the relevant line:
I was writing a poem
about paying attention and microwaved a hot dog
so hot it burned a beet-red hole in the roof of my
mouth.
My version:
I was thinking about a story while cooking lunch
and spilled some soup on the stove and picked up the burner grill
to clean it and seared three fingers on my right hand
so much that now I’m typing with my left.
Mr. Managing Editor: IJS.
