I unearthed a turtle
on the banks of a muddy creek
at the closing of summer.

We developed quite a rapport.

So much so
that I invited him
to vacation
in my home.

A more polite and considerate guest
one could not wish for.

Engaging dinner conversation.
Generous and manifold compliments.
The bottle of wine he gifted was
extraordinary.

But my grandmother,
when the night arrived,
refused to share a roof with a creature
that could not dream.

After all,
at her age,
dreams were becoming more and more
infrequent.

And she couldn’t
wouldn’t
risk the influences
of a cold-blooded
reptile.

Fortunately,
our guest exhibited striking poise
at the confrontation.

And departed as if nothing had occurred.

Returning
to the muddy banks of the creek
where he succumbed
to his dreamless slumber.

Your lips taste like tumors,
and cancer perfumes your hair.
I guess you could say,
you’re really growing on me.
But, I’m not entirely prepared
to resign myself to platitudes quite yet.
Not while the focaccia
still corners the market on staleness.
Lord! I can be so trite.

Plumes of terminal maples

drown the gravel road

beneath cobweb skies

with winter’s perfume on the wind.

I’m lost

deciphering her shy autumnal glances

and weathering

her vernal stares.

The plight of the Kookaburra is most unfortunate
Robbed from their

island
                                          country
                                                              continent

And shuttled into jungles
By Hollywood execs and producers
As soundtrack devices for phantom monkeys.
They sit hidden behind banana leaves
And exotic-looking ferns
With melancholy frowns and wrinkled brows
Thinking how unfortunate it is to be a Kookaburra
Blessed with distinguished voices

But cursed to invisibility.

I wonder if the urinal ever feels inadequate
When he stares at the stalls with hidden toilet seats inside
And conjectures that he might feel more fulfilled with his job
If only people sat on him.

I wonder how many times someone steps up to drain his bladder
And the urinal rolls his eyes, sighs, and remarks to himself:
“Geez, not this dick again.”

Nicker

Whicker

Whinny

and neigh.

These are the

sounds that a horsey

makes.

I handed her a bouquet of pheasants,

tethered with a knot of toads,

but the lone reply she indulged me to suffer,

was naught but a jay’s icy scold.