Is her imagination not
a curse but a boon?
Some think her belfry’s been infested by a bat,
when she sits each night and writes ‘neath the moon.
She is a dreamer and realists rule the nation,
so at dawn she writes and tosses poems in a bin.
Hundreds of poems fill the rusty tin,
and she knows they must weigh a ton.
In her backyard, she sits on a mat,
still writing every day at noon.
Chestnut hair and a striking tan,
her writing keeps her from meeting a man.
* Entry for Catie’s “Word Games” Contest