[Michael Cantor]

The midnight knock is followed by a voice,
a raspy bass, “Hey, open up, it’s Joyce!”
"Tell me, do you mean the Joyce whose fame's
based on Trees, or are we talking James?"
"To write" she answered "was my dearest wish;
but I should say I am in fact a fish..."

I cracked the door, and saw that line 2's "bass"
should not have rhymed with "face", but "[something crass]".
I'm cursed by TYPO, keeper of the keys
I'd beg for help, but I do not have knees.

I thought I knew the face, but wasn't sure:
"Hey -- is this Joyce the Mermaid at the door?"
"Yes! It's me I'm dried out, and I'm woozy.
Let's talk while I relax in your jacuzzi

How come you don't recall my voice, my dear?
There was a time its timbres charmed your ear."
I said "Come in for lunch. You'll find a plaice
inside." She disappeared without a trace.

I went out fishing for her. In the river
of murky mist, the air gave me a shiver.
I had the urge to leave, but let it pass.
I listened for the sound of bass or bass

when -- ouch! -- a pointy thorn impaled my hand
and yanked me up. Now, far above, the land-
mark wheel of London's cantilevered Eye
frowned down on me. I sat and wondered why
hallucinations plagued me day and night.
I pulled myself together then turned right
into a pub, and drank a pint of ale,
pondering that mermaid's lovely tail

swathed in seaweed. Now where is that creature
with flowing golden hair (its foremost feature)?
It wouldn't be amiss to find it dead -
sorely tortured by a twisted thread.
Can those, then, whose pursuits are piscatorial
chip in to give the thing a decent burial.

Now Joyce appeared and said, “Your long-lost fish--
how could you want me dead? Is that your wish?”
Although the tale is fishy, I'll be kind,
and change my answer to a never mind.