Jack’s A Dull Boy

Script Frenzy Twenty-Twelve has gone
Like grass from an unwatered lawn.
My College Play was barely born
And won’t grow up before the morn.
The play’s not dead: I’ll finish yet
(Take that as promise or as threat),
But April’s output literary
Went to something much more scary:
One part of a pending book
For which triathlon’s the hook
And my tale’s, say, the worm’s hind end
Through which the reader bait’s been pinned.
So, Flopsy and Elena wait
Onstage until a later date
When I turn my attention back
To giving their shared tale a crack
At closure, which ’til now’s been hid
From them (and me). At least I did
Meet one deadline so far this spring,
And maybe this Tri book’s a thing
About which tens of readers might
Say, someday, “He did something write!”


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