It’s November and we all know what that means. The race to December is on. One poem. Each day. You can do it.
The Glorious Mess
The chase was over three days later,
He and his socks came slapping up the walkway,
salt and pepper whiskers sprouting askew
while the wind whipped and blew.
The yard was filling with eager beaver journalists
fumbling for a story, frowning deputies screaming
warnings, harnessed dogs, mugs to the soil,
sweating flanks–a billowing royal glorious mess.
Oh, but for the grace of God, we all agreed,
he’d be sunk in the bog head first, a church
wake, a lily grave, an empty pipe, a goodbye wave.
All in search of an egg, he said.
One green acre at a time, he said
before heading off to his warm bed.