THE CHUNKY MOUSE
By David Allen
Moe the mouse
was the slovenly sort,
always looking for a way out
of sharing food he found
in the food factory.
Which is what brought
him to Minnie’s Court.
“This is the fourth time
this week that you’ve
been caught in your
solitary chow downs,”
She said. “What say you?”
“I didn’t think there was enough
meat for everyone,” Moe burped.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re fired,” Minnie said.
And Moe was escorted away.
Some days later, a woman in Elwood
learned about Minnie’s l love of puns
when she opened a can of Campbell’s
Chunky soup and bit into Moe’s shoulder.
He had indeed been canned.
WANDERLUST
By David Allen
It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have
brought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.
I am the oldest of seven children
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger,
while I discovered the world.
Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories,
military bases, and the estates
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.
I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?
I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.
I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained
when life moved on
to other structures
and other worlds.
No Flow
By David Allen
I wonder
If the reason
My fountain pen
Fails to write
An impressive
Bold black line
Is the same
As my current
Writer's block.
The ink,
Like the words,
Just refuses
To flow.
The warning that came With my new prescription Said a possible side effect Was Restless Leg Syndrome. I scratched my head and thought, “Side effect? What’s the big deal? Hell, I’ve had restless legs all my life.”
I was never much of a stay-at-home, At last count, I’ve moved 43 times In the last seven decades. I hitchhiked and drove through Most of the U.S. states And lived in four of them’ And the District of Columbia. I also lived and worked in Guam And Okinawa, Japan, And cruised around Germany, Korea, Thailand, and numerous South Pacific and Caribbean Islands.
So, yeah, my legs are restless And I am excited to see Where they’ll take me Once this new medicine works.
Within a week the world turned green outside my humble home. Branches that bore tiny green shoots now bend with the weight of broad oak leaves. The woods are alive with chatterings and coos. But the leaves hide the high aerie roosts and the busy birds tending their broods.
Something strange Is happening here. Matched socks Become unmated When freed from the dryer. And the footloose Shoe stuffers Leave no word Of where they went.
And parking in a space Called a driveway Leaves me scratching My head bald and benumbed, Remembering how I was also Confused by driving On parkways.
But nothing was as weird As the warped wire mystery That messed with me today As I looked in an old storage tub For a smartphone charger. The wires I swear were placed there Individually months, years ago, Was one huge mass.
Old phone cords wound around Extension cords that must have Extended welcome to strings Of earbuds and HDMI connectors Who gladly wrapped themselves In a loose wire love fest, Apparently testing All the tangled twists Of the Kama Sutra.
I spent more than an hour Unwinding them while wondering What I would find the next time I searched for a cord.
We’re hunkered down inside our homes while Covid 19 is running wild. The death count’s mounting up while the President keeps lying. I’m looking for the Gorilla Glue, gonna paste my doors and windows, make sure the bug stays outside while I watch the horror news and binge-watch apocalypse movies. And just to stay safe, If the bug makes it through a crack I hope to slow its deathly attack with my welcoming black bug shirt.
I’m afraid to touch her.
Sometimes the MS pain’s so bad
she lies in bed all day and wonders
whether life is really worth it all.
I’m afraid to touch her.
I want to tell her it’s okay,
the pain has always briefly eased,
yet now it’s returned much worse.
I’m afraid to touch her.
There’s no telling where next it will hurt,
we can kiss and hug, but not too hard.
There’s no cure for what pains her every day.
WANDERLUST
By David Allen
It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have
brought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.
I am the oldest of seven children
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger,
while I discovered the world.
Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories,
military bases, and the estates
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.
I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?
I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.
I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained
when life moved on
to other structures
and other worlds.
