I have two thumbs. I’m glad I do.
I like my other fingers, too,
But thumbs are dactyl underdogs.
Pointers? Middles? Glory hogs.
The ring’s okay, the pinkie, sure,
But I still like ol’ Thumbkin more.

While fingers type, the thumb makes space.
It’s hardly ever in your face
The way a jabbing index is
When someone’s all up in your biz,
And when you just can’t zip your lip
Your thumb’s what lets you get a grip.

When Romans in the Coliseum
Saw thumbs-up, you’d want to be ’em;
Theirs might slip inside their mouth,
However, when they saw thumbs-south.
Who’s got two thumbs and likes ’em fine?
This guy! (And I’ve got plums on mine!)

Running Dog

A “running dog” can be construed
As epithetical and rude
By those who’ve studied Poly Sci
Or Rhetoric; please know that I
Am being literal, in fact.
No hidden codes here need be cracked.

Nor am I referring to
The fun-size sort of pet that you
Might carry in a fanny pack
Or by a handle on its back
But rather one who’d rather run
Beside you, and who finds it fun.

Explicitly, I mean a dog
Who finds more pleasure in a jog
To anywhere and back again
Than chowing down or sleeping in.
Through evening gloom or morning dew,
A running dog just runs with you.

That’s what I mean by the phrase.
I miss my running dog, these days.

Phlegm Me To You

I coughed into an open box
And made a gift that’s worse than socks
‘Cause giving truly awful junk’ll
Earn the title “Crazy Uncle.”
Not sure yet how come I care
But since the title’s sitting there
I’m glad to have the sobriquet.
(I’ve lots of crap to give away.)

Fit To Print

My fifteen minutes came and went
This weekend when the Fit to Print
Credential — maybe misapplied —
Was placed upon a verse that I’d
Submitted to a contest at
The Old Gray Lady. Think of that:
A published poet (more or less)!
If that’s the acme of success
For me, I’ll take it. Writing rhymes
Is how I cope with trying Times,
And there’s no cause to fear we will
Run short of raw material
As long as Casa Blanca’s where
They’re stashing Donald and his hair
Until his short attention span
Destroys us all. (I’m not a fan.)
I’m proud to take a bow (or three).
Now, back into obscurity.