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Poem

The fall of sixty-three, an incongruity!
I saw myself on a Queen's float, a title rare -
"Miss Sorghum" of our Hancock County fair.
I aced the talent part - piano was my art;
but needed practice wobbling in a brand-new pair
of pointy, spiky heels I'd bought to wear.

Fate came about too soon, that fatal afternoon,
my clever escort list'ning for the judge's cue,
had grabbed my anxious hand for our debut. 
I stumbled, did not trip but felt my gown unzip.
My hero bravely shielded me from public view;
his jacket 'round my waist and shoulders threw.

My chance was gone, undone. On three-inch heels I spun
and left the judge in awe, escaping with my knight
to a storage room and a most peculiar plight -
A ladder 'gainst the wall, wobbly toddler set to fall.
I reached for chubby feet, my gaping rear in sight
outstretched across the rungs, I held on tight.

A twist, he made a track, came headfirst down my back
as mom returned to see my escort catch the bloke.
(Her child asleep, she'd stepped outside to smoke.)
He'd torn my gown she guessed, and offered me redress.
I refused her check and reclaimed my cohort's cloak.
No float for me - the fall my zipper broke.
A child unhurt - his fall my zipper broke.

September 9, 2013

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