by Baloney Bill
There are some things we are driven to do regardless of the possible consequences.
If I Wrote a Poem
If I wrote a poem, the setting would be
a quiet meadow beside a rippling stream
under blue skies. I will sit in the meadow
doing nothing except being blissfully happy.
Most likely, though, storm clouds will be brewing,
and I'll be tormented by indecision.
Should I keep my place or rush home ahead of the
storm? The skies would open up then, raining real cats
and dogs, hissing and growling. Imagine the mess and
melee of that! Plagues may ensue – – frogs,
locusts, an addlebrained president. The stream will
likely turn to blood, too. I will take this as an indication
I should leave. I will be soaking wet, cold, and
embarrassed of my disheveled appearance as I
stand at the bus stop. Passing autos will
splash me with water, and I will hear diabolical
laughter from the drivers. The bus will
finally arrive, and the driver will be my
fifth-grade teacher Sister Mary Misery who will
just shake her head in disgust as I get on. There
are empty seats, but everyone crowds towards
the aisle so there is no place for me. I have
to stand. Sister Misery starts the bus with a
lurch, and I go sprawling to the floor. Everyone
laughs as I struggle to my feet. It is a long ride
home. This is why I am reluctant to write a poem,
but can't stop from doing so anyway.