This is not a poem. This
is a joke. Poetry does
not discuss dead rodents,
snow shovels, or squirrel
tails in a driveway. This
is not a poem.
This is the account
of an introvert finding
a smelly mound of fur
in her driveway. Was it
rat, rabbit–Big Foot’s toupe,
who knows. I didn’t.
With no prince, servant,
or magic ring, I gloved
my paranoid hands in latex.
I searched the dank
culvert beneath my house for
a snow shovel, and found it.
My shield was a trash
bag–two to be precise. Time
was of the essence.
After the foul deed was done and
the foul creature was deposited
in the blue barrel to my left, like
a check in the bank, time for
decontamination.
We decontaminate calmly,
rationally–like surgeons after
surgery. Well, more like
turn lever no water turn
lever wash shovel wash
hands discard gloves
Lysol (TM) shoes take
shower wash
hair wash hands eat
food watch TV.
Watch an insipid
squirrel challenge his
own reflection in the glass
porch door, self-important
and strange in the spring
afternoon. Write poor
poetry because
This is not a poem.
Trust me, it’s not.
This is a joke. Hope you
had fun.
In The Chrysalis 