Third Monday of January
some say it’s the year’s saddest day,
windy weather and scattered snow
could hold into February.
Yet in bleak gloom, a bright hope glows
as I butter my breakfast toast
and open up your email post
to learn that your arrival’s nigh
truly raises my spirits high.
But looking round I realize
our house resembles porcine styes
to leave, as is, could jeopardize
our status matrimonial
which might become divorceial.
Floors must be washed and dishes too
sheets to change and laundry to do
fridge to clean, garbage to take out
change the washer on dripping tap.
At last all is done, without doubt
I’ve escaped the wife’s away trap
Ophthalmologist
Checked eyes
Have styes
Proctologist
Drop drawers
Up yours
Plastic Surgeon
Replace
Plain face
Gastroenterologist
Pass gas
No class
Dermatologist
All sorts
Of warts
Audiologist
Can't hear
Bad ear
Dentist
No Floss
Gross dross
Psychiatrist
Your bean
Not keen
Podiatrist
Big toe
Must go
ENT Specialist
Ope' maw
Say ahhh
Allergist
Please sneeze
Don't wheeze
Cardiologist
Poor bloke
Had stroke
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Judy Konos' "Your Footle Poem" Contest
It was a searing moment in grueling
heat of your flesh, the racist attack had come
to surface, the blue eyes,
edible gold, in nights
the pink veil of the moon,
I will cut my wrist to pour out the pure vermillion;
a huge umbrella of hot kisses
dissolving the contaminated beads
of musk, like fever;
the smoke rolls down the hills
of collective guilt,
an anonymous warning;
the frozen voice opens
like a black tulip on baby ice,
down under goes the sun.
SATISH VERMA
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