You’ll never see a guy
shake his fist at the sky
and let fly the impassioned cry,
“I just want to fix typewriters.”
Some dream of escaping life in the hoi polloi,
pretending to be a princess, wearing a tiara toy,
but no one applies for the post of “whipping boy.”
[To take the beatings for said mischievous princess.]
And should you flush your ring down the toilet bowl,
you’re on your own, bless your plague-fated soul,
cause you’ll not find a tosher to jump down the sewer hole.
[Unless your time machine is set for London, circa 1850.]
When I look back at the sea of me’s.
I grin with glee and I’m quite pleased,
feeling totally at ease…
Because they’re all happily obsolete.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #10]