I feel like the I Love Lucy Lucy,
too loud, gawky, hair a perfect symbol
of inner turmoil. Always scheming,
always failing, forever starstruck,
and stuck with an Ethel who enables.
Vaguely unsatisfied, I consider disguises
Carmen Miranda? Harpo Marx? Superman?
attempts to remake myself, but will I forever be
the squawking Irish wife attached to a man
— a musician, god help me! —
who seems to be speaking another language … ?

But I want to be the Peanuts Lucy,
brash, vocal, hair always in place,
armed with a cute but tightly wound fist.
Oh to be Miss Van Pelt in a world full of blockheads,
to never give advice away for free,
to be merciless in my withholding of intimacy
— the Freudian football!!! —
and knowing the Charlie Browns will always come back.
Yes, the beagle is an issue, and
she loves another distant man — a musician, too! —
who seems gay, but at least
she knows where to find him …

Ah,
what can one do?
Can we become the Lucy we want to be?
Before I can ever consider a change
here are the chocolates
coming too fast down the conveyor belt
and I must eat them.

*Honorable mention, asinine poetry literary contest, fall 2001