Purse-size Poem

she was the wolf

that cried

“girl”,

the pumpkin-lover

sure to beat the carriage home,

the napping blueblood who

rolled over

in lieu of kisses

–eschewing organic fruit for

GMO since she knew damn well

bigger was better, and

a sure cure for living with systemic

pesticide

– the mutant green–

and ever

mindful of impending run on glass coffins,

she trip-trip-trapped

across bridges

–aflame behind her,

a burning pyre of pick-up Styx

that had gone up like a pile

of pick-up Styx

// just like that \\

careless of gnomes, trolls  and ogres, all,

but mouse-fearful of pachyderms

she embraced blackout conditions

(when available)

and employed catapult to sling Stones

–on the down low

. . .

–at a gun fight

. . .

–at a proper fi-fie-foe fed fire

all the while fermenting bad apples in

cider which

offed

the less hardy

(in cider = truth)

but not her royal ass-pain

–valuing rest beyond

formula, she

was good to leave

secret rooms  locked,

–for heaven’s sake–

climbing 500

miles of stares

instead,

–God Bless America–

and presenting word jumbles

when it felt just rite

–presently–

to riddle you this.