My mingle-mangle mismash mixed bag of stuff
Is a pastiche, potpourri, patchwork of remnants rough
The accumulation of this junk was not so very tough
Feather dusters, ink wells, rulers, silver links of cuff
Pincushions, a beaver tail, old Spice, smelly snuff
Nails, shoe polish, tape, puffer that does not still puff
Potholders, elf statue, rags to give car a buff
Petrified cinnamon roll, please don’t give me guff.
Mona Lisa half smile grin
poses lifetimes of too few
pots to piss in
Still we mingle mangle mutter and mirror our Stalwart egos
so as not to comply with false looks of bliss.
Ignorant gossip useless praise spark drone conversations of
putrid malaise. Let us try to live open book lives--writing
chapters of truth, paragraphs of love, flowing sentences of
compassion with periods of long lasting empathy.
Turn the page.
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