(A Romance)

Just wrote this short story into my iPhone while travelling from brookyn to Manhattan.

There once was a writer named Ernstedt McGoo
And everything he wrote in his notebook came true
From fictional births, weddings and even the occasional fictional obit
But the thing was that Ernstedt didn’t know it!

So he would go bout his day just writing his fancy
Not knowing the repercussions, but see
This all started to change the day he wrote a character; a girl; a female called Nancy.

Nancy was pretty
And Nancy was nice
Nancy was smart
(She got a college degree twice!)
She liked olives and licorice and even cold pizza
She smiled big when she thought about eating cold pizza

Truly, Nancy was his Mona Lisa.

Until the fitfull day when up from above,
Ernstedt decided Nancy should fall in love

It was lazyness truly, or maybe a wish
Not as creative as he usually is
Plagarizing life as a book from a shelf
Ernstedt McGoo made the man of Nancy’s dreams— himself!

And so that afternoon as he sat on the L train scribbling,
A voice like a mouse happened to burst out giggling
He looked up to see what had caused the laughing fit,
And saw a lower lip being carefully bit
Then a nose, and a twitch, and an arching brow and an eye,
And a rather forward shy girl saying,

“Hi!”

He recognized the jacket, the distinct hairdo
And the winged-elephant-reading-an-encyclopedia tattoo
So as much out of disbeleif as curiosity and maybe a third thing too,
He gently lay down his notebook on his lap and said, rather formally,

“How do you do?”

The rest of their conversation was trite, though engaging enough to last through the night,
For they each knew just what the other would say— they’d been thinking about each other all day!

And occasionally he would sneak a moment to write off some lines— a new childhood memory about a swing made of storm-torn powerlines, and then snap! just like that, without breaking time, it would be recalled (and sometimes recounted) by her wonderful mind.

Had Ernstedt created the girl of his dreams?
So it would appear, but not all, dear reader, is quite as it seems,
For deep within the backpack of Nancy Hufflepuffgoos
(that was her surname) a small notebook lay loose
And buried not deep, but fresh in its pages,
Was the description of a boy she’d been dreaming for ages
But had only recently been brave enough to set imagination to ink
If your suspicions are whet, it may be what you think

Do you really need me to come out and tell you?

She’d just scribbled a boy name of Ernstedt McGoo.

Do you have a notebook somewhere? And a dream lover too?
Somewhere, Somewho, I believe you do.