Hopping Sad

My sweet, expired kitty cat
Is haunting me. It’s either that
Or she bequeathed her favorite flea
To me in perpetuity.
She must have known I’d not be bored
So long as there’s a hopping horde
Of parasites to raise a toast
To me, their most congenial host.
Deploying seven cans of Raid
Brand fogger would, I thought, put paid
To all the open flea accounts,
But not so much. The interest mounts
As does their interest in my feet
And ankles. How does one defeat
An enemy whose tiny size
Means freckles make a fine disguise?
I glance and slap and gouge my shin;
Turns out it’s only melanin
In clumps upon my dermis, while
Behind my knee the vermin smile.
Listen: Can you hear the purr
Of my late cat? It’s thanks to her
Alone is what I’ll never be.
Excuse me, time to feed the flea.


Pretty horsey of the night,
How come you give me such a fright?
You’re sweet as candy in the day;
At night it’s like I stole your hay!
I’m just trying to get some sleep.
You’re scaring off my counting sheep!
At least take off the hockey mask
And drop the saw. That’s all I ask.

Available For Parties

Now, I don’t want to bring you down
Or turn that grin into a frown
Or drive your bus to Bummer Town
But, hey, it’s what I do.

When lemonade is needed, I
Rain sour pickles from the sky.
I’m sadness in a ragged tie
And one enormous shoe.
(The other’s caked in poo.)

The point of having me around
Escapes most folk. My friends have found
That having been by me enclowned
Brings plethorae to rue.
(That’s not the plural, true,
But, like the cow said, “Moo.”)

I’m disappointed, too.

The Welsh Moron

The finish line recedes as fast
As all the milestones I’ve passed
Until at long and weary last
I recognize the stick
One end of which atop my head
Is tied with twine; from t’other, thread
Suspends the treat toward which I’ve sped
So long my tongue is thick
And arid, but the die is cast
And though I know I won’t be fed
I crave at least a lick
Confound this cartoon trick


Somnambulism: That’s when you
Get up before your sleep is through
And go about your night as if
It’s day; though when you wake you’re stiff,
You’re pleased your FitBit says you’ve leapt
To record step-counts while you slept.
I prefer to stay in bed
And journey gently in my head.
Walking in your sleep is fine
When it’s your sleep. Stay out of mine.

Donkey Talk

Donkeys mill about the yard.
They try to talk, but not too hard,
‘Cause talking donkeys don’t win prizes
‘Less they’re wearing good disguises.
Dressed as elephants, they’ll bray;
As donkeys, though, they’ve naught to say.
The reason is–this may sound crass–
When donkeys talk, it’s out the ass.