A foundational principle that makes comedy work, whether written or stand-up, is “misdirection”. The (straight) set-up has you leaning one way and then the punch line abruptly yanks you in another direction and to an unexpected ending. I wanted to experiment with misdirection in this poem. Although telling you beforehand partially spoils the surprise.
With the aroma of coffee beans freshly ground
pledging a soothing brew,
I’ve lined the couch like a nest
with sections of the Sunday New York Times.
Several paragraphs into an article
about early onset Alzheimers
the next thing I know… I’m on a dairy farm across town
trying to milk a tractor, with no idea how I got there
or how to get home.
--rLp --
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