Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered;
events planned
wandered off like drunken sheep.
It was the Advil,
it was the insomnia,
it was not enough iron in my soul.
Speaking of which, my stools
are obsidian artifacts;
a consequence of iron therapy.
The day got no better,
the drunk sheep returned all at once,
tin replaced iron,
anemic confusions swirled
my spirit grew pale.
Within me
body bugs binged
on iron
while the blood dieted.
Sunday smelts to Monday
a peaceful time,
my inner ghost is recovering,
sheep are grazing.
I suck upon nuts
and bolts
make plans,
iron-out
future road bumps.
Deb dieted to a size four
She walked and her bones scratched the floor
Her knee caps were locking
But no men came knocking
It’s Christmas, can’t take anymore!
So now Deb sits waiting for Nick
It's cold, he best get here real quick
Ole Nick has eight pets
As good as it gets
It’s rumored they fly (what a trick!)
Nick warned her he carries such pudge
That Deb fears his sleigh will not budge
But he vowed they’d ride
With Rudolph as guide
O’er rooftops through snow, rain and sludge
*November 28, 2018
For Sara’s “Park Bench at Christmas” Contest
Image Number Six