Running behind the herd as always, (a dangerous place for an aging creature!), I trip over Lolamouse's prompt at Toads, to write an "accessible poem" in the style of Billy Collins. My brain cells being fairly fried by now, I think much of my poetry is perhaps a little TOO accessible, sometimes, but I will try to Collins it up a notch for you, kind reader.
Wandering through the living room to let in
half a dozen dogs,
I see a neatly beheaded small mouse - a shrew? -
lying on the nearer dog bed.
The cat imperiously stalks past, likely
trying to send a message about
the calibre of her kibble.
How soon they forget being homeless,
and become demanding.
Why are they called shrews, I wonder.
Or, alternatively,
why are women called shrews when they complain?
Generally, we have a ton of good reasons to do so.
I pluck him from his decapitated end,
wrap him in paper toweling
and ponder:
garbage or compost?
Hmmm...........the Head Honcho
is not at home to ask.
Okay, garbage: swiftly done,
No One Will Ever Know -
other than you,
dear reader,
and you wont tell.
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Oh, I LOVE accessible poetry.
But if I start repeating myself,
please do tell me.
I'm old.
It happens.
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