If I didn’t set aside time to do this or that
I’d fly out the door without my cravat.
I’d take a leak from my neighbor’s roof.
All this to witness that I’m a goof
for trying to write how to curse politely.
Or whistle at nightingales noon and nightly.
The best laid plans may rise up and jump
over the walls surrounding Humpty’s Dump.
No, let us tiptoe through sleepy towns
wielding brooms and dustpans in caps and gowns.
Claiming every scapegoat has the right to vote.
Then you and I, charmers, retreat to that mote.
Last Election
Published in Poetry