Almost invisibly, the little poem scampered like
a jettisoned leaf across the page.
Then, it found darkness. Really dark darkness. Like night.
And it sat for a time biding the shadows,
thinking thoughts of infamy
or of a nice bubble bath if it could only make it home.
Of course, poems have no legs to speak of.
If they scamper, they must do so with scrawny vowels
or stick letter consonants, scratching across the page
like weary nails across a keyboard.
(I mean, it is difficult for little poems
out there alone on the page!)
Love to them is like
another word upon the page—printed.
Love is a ritual, a conundrum, an explosive sigh,
A whoopee cushion noise—
a really big farting sound, and I do mean really, really big—
excellent in length and rich bass dimension.
Sounds carry to the edge of the sea,
Where little poems spout, "Call me fishmeal.
For I alone am left to tell thee."
Perhaps the peanut butter lid has been left out in the rain
and we are all falling in love with leaves,
the ocean, the poem, and even love itself.
Sent as a joke to poetry.com