Something’s not right--the dog has too many legs,
The poet is rhyming punch with anaconda,
You in an iron mask, a gun in hand,
Thought balloons overhead. Alarming stuff
For those not yet acquainted with the dog,
Whose genial nature only wants to please.
A centipede for love. A friend in need.
But why not a sword, which better suits the mask,
If not the miniskirt, balloons so full,
They’re raining everywhere, the proper nouns
And action words. The poet is nonplussed.
Nevertheless, each sun must have its day
To shine on its constituents and tell
Its tale, or maybe that’s the comet, come
And gone, not to return, until next time.
And, no, conclusion has not come. Not yet.
Not while an aunt is upstairs rhyming fish
And threatening to wed the chest of drawers.
Something will come of this, something sublime,
Like peonies or chifforobes in flames.
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