Roll Out the Laurels

Rock Island Argus
Moline Dispatch
August 5, 2010

The old self-esteem needs a boost. That’s why I’m applying for the position of Quad Cities Poet Laureate.

The honor, bestowed by Quad City Arts, will go to someone who is "an advocate of poetry in the community" and will promote the "recognition of poetry as an indispensable literary expression."

The deadline is in two weeks, and, so far, all I have in my poetry portfolio is a bunch of limericks that begin "There once was a man from Nantucket." Therefore, my application for the position of Poet Laureate rests on one unique poetic accomplishment:

I am the only person in the world ever to come up with a rhyme for "Mississippi River."

It occurs in the final quatrain of my epic poem, "The Lady of the River." (I haven’t written it yet. In fact, all I have so far is a few crucial rhymes. I’ll write the whole thing when the Quad City Arts judges crown me with laurels. Life is all about priorities

My rhyme is so good that I’m going to print it here. First, I’ll set the stage, so you can really enjoy it, and all other poets can quiver in fear.

The poem is about a Rock Island woman who lives on a houseboat and will die of a rare liver disease unless she gets an organ transplant from a vegetarian who was conceived at the Woodstock rock festival, has never held a steady job and lives with his friends in a teepee.

(Stick with me, here. Remember, a summary can’t portray the full depth of the entire work. Would anyone read a book based on an amazon.com review that said, "A carpenter quits his job, hangs out with fishermen, curses at fig trees and, through a series of improbable events, becomes the Savior of Mankind"?)

The dying woman in my poem is an immigrant from Munich named Lily Schill. Just to give you a taste of my rhyming skills, here’s the first line of the poem:

"German Lily Schill

Was terminally ill."

See? German Lily Schill. Terminally ill. (I’ve lived in Illinois long enough to pick up the Midwestern habit of repeating the punch line until somebody gets it, or March 15th, whichever comes first.

Lily's friends and family search everywhere. Her brother finds an appropriate donor, but brings back the wrong organ. Lily sets him straight with the haunting lines

"Thanks for nothing, Sidney,

I need liver, not a kidney."

Then, a neighbor returns with the right organ, but, as Lily points out, it’s from the wrong source:

"This liver is of good stock,

but the donor’s not from Woodstock."

Finally (get out the laurels, judges, I’m ready for the ceremony), just as Lily is about to die, her boyfriend, who, for the sake of art happens to be a hepatobiliary surgeon, comes running toward the river, having cut the proper organ from the perfect donor, an unemployed guitar player who was conceived at Woodstock, shares a tent with seven other people and lives in on a diet of brown rice and Led Zeppelin records:

"'Good news!' he called as he approached the Mississippi River.

'I've got the perfect organ here. Yes: this is hippie liver.'"

One more time: Mississippi River. This is hippie liver.

The term laureate comes from the wreath of laurels with which the Romans crowned their emperors. I take a size 7 ½.