If a Poet Had Nine Lives

Poets were given nine lives a year ago During the pandemic. Didn’t you know? I used my first life in January, when I fell in the snow. Lost until my soul had left. Oh, what woe! Luckily, life number two took me through Valentine’s Day. I had Zoom meetings to attend, and Google Meets along the way. I got zapped by electricity, for my machines were ungrounded. Life number two was gone; your disbeliefs unfounded. Life Number three was happy and excited, cheerful and gray. She kept me safe and enthusiastic every day. We were besties for a month, maybe two. But then I was run over by an elephant name of Blue. I was determined to be careful with life number four. I drove rather carefully from my home to the store. I did not take any risks, I wore a mask on my face. The fact that a wolf got me was a huge disgrace. Life Number Five was overbearing and crude. She told me what to do, commanded, and she was rude. I did not mind losing her, the day she went away. I have to admit, I was not one second gray. Life Number Six came along on Memorial Day. She decorated graves with me, and we made them all gay. We danced and strutted until I accidentally fell into an open grave. Life Number Six is gone now, but often her I still crave. Life Number Seven came with warnings of danger of red. I nicknamed him Samuel, but he asked me to rename him Fred. I was getting scared now, because I am losing lives fast. He told me not to worry, to stop dwelling on all my lives past. I am proud of myself for I only have two lives left. If I lost number seven, I would feel depressed and bereft. I am choking on this sandwich loaded with Iowa Ham. Oh, no, here is Life number Eight. Damn! Damn! Damn!