I have the soul of a poet. I bought it at a Sotheby’s auction. I can’t remember the poet’s name. She isn’t exactly well-known, but I couldn’t afford a really famous poet. I don’t get poetry, anyway. Maybe she’s really great and will be famous one day, though I don’t think so.
I keep her soul in a glass case in my sitting room. It’s just a mist that swirls around. My friend Meredith looked at it and said I got suckered, but I’ve got all the certificates of authenticity from Sotheby’s. Everyone else knows what it is. People come over and tell me how wonderful the house is, and they’re delighted to find I have the soul of a poet. I always wanted to hear that.
My grandmother once told me I had the soul of a banker, but I didn’t think I did, and when I went through my stuff, I couldn’t find it anywhere. I asked my mom, and she said I didn’t have the soul of a banker, or any other soul. Other people have told me I’m soulless. I never liked to hear that, and now I don’t have to because I have the soul of a poet.
I created a sealed room where I can let out the soul and be with it. The soul is moody. I had to remove all the breakables from the room, which you wouldn’t think would be a problem without a body, but it is.
Sometimes if the soul is in the right mood, she’ll speak in verse. It all sounds pretty trite to me — a lot of stuff about alcohol and sex and suicide — but I write it down and read it to people who come over. Most people roll their eyes at the verses, but they always listen and smile and tell me I have the soul of a poet, and that they wished they did too, even if she isn’t any good.