I didn’t know about the unicorn thing until she mentioned it
during one of her video blogs.
It was one of those kick in the head moments that brought
back a whole litany of memories, most of which have nothing to do with her.
More than once I compared her to a stripper I dated in the
1980s – although she (the poet) has much more talent, and is a liberal, where
the stripper was a hard core Republican, posted a full sized American Flag in
her window, and loved John Wayne.
Our poet is a liberal, almost completely drenched in the new
woke culture, and probably hates John Wayne.
The stripper loved unicorns, and almost every man she ever
dated bought her unicorn knickknacks as a way of ingratiating themselves with
her. Everywhere I looked in her apartment I saw unicorns.
I cannot say the same when I visited our poet’s apartment,
which is why her recent statement about being in love with unicorns as a young
girl startled me.
I wrote several books about both women, and numerous journal
entries, although I wrote more poems about or for the poet, while I wrote a
number of songs for the stripper – including a rather pathetic song about John
Wayne, her cat Jessy, and a unicorn, which I recently went back to look at.
While both women are similar in a number of ways other than
their politics and their favorite movie stars (our poet loved a particular food
writer from what I can recall), the unicorn stand out.
The stripper committed suicide just prior to her 40th
birthday. I usually put a single rose on her grave several times a year, along
with a stuff bear (she loved those, too), and from time to time, I also put a
small unicorn novelty there as well (which usually lasts through the winter
when I need to replace it).
Fortunately, our poet appears to have saved herself and so
will not require the same treatment. In fact, recently, she celebrated middle
age, pointing to a strand of gray hair on her head. Instead of rewriting the
song I wrote about John Wayne riding off into the sunset on a unicorn, I’ll just
have to do a cover of The Grateful Dead’s touch of gray.
If I ever do buy a unicorn novelty for the poet, I’ll have
to place it somewhere in conspicuous, perhaps in a park near the river.
Who knows.
