The attic of a cottage home—
Contained a manual typewriter,
A Grecian marble vase,
Disheveled shelves of lit’rature,
With steel desk amidst—
The occupant of attic’s room
Was Aristotle Tate,
His spouse of twenty-some odd years,
A fashionista — Kate.
She scrutinized the clothing trends,
Consumed with what-to-wear,
And often she would gaze upstairs,
But rarely ventured there.
She stockpiled multitudes of shoes
To compliment her clothes,
Her nail polish color was
A frosted-lacquered rose.
In contrast, Aristotle wore
Clothes from his high school days
While writing underneath the eaves
In attic’s hideaway.
Occasion’ly for research
He went fishing near a glen,
Then later wrote of Vikings
And of valiant naval men.
Once with a meal, as heart-burn flared
The novel he began
‘Twas ‘bout a poisoned monarch,
Sayonara In Japan.
When writer’s block assaulted him
He’d take the marble vase,
And in the veining, pictures saw—
An ancient emperor’s face,
Or headless torsos, gruesome gnomes,
A pirate’s mizzenmast,
Or profiles of aristocrats,
State leaders from the past.
And every time his marble vase
Came to the writer’s aid.
It conjured visions in his mind,
It quelled writer’s blockade.
Between his research and his vase,
They fed imagination,
His writings were prolific,
Brimmed with edge and inspiration.
While he was out she ventured where
She’d seldom been before,
Bravely the stairs ascended,
Then through the attic door,
She stared at all the mishmash
Within his office space,
Her blood pressure soared skyward
When she eyed that ancient vase?
Now why did Aristotle own
A plain outmoded vase?
In keeping with her character,
To purge things from their place,
Without remorse or second thought,
Rose-colored lacquered nails
Pilfered the Grecian marble vase
To auction at a sale.
On his return from research
And ascension to his room,
The absence of his marble vase
Made Aristotle fume.
Unmindful, Kate was searching through
Some ads from Très Chic Store,
So Aristotle worked on his
New novel—Third World War.
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