a poem by Beverly Stock
No guessing needed, please, not such a shock,
If I wrote today, there’ll be crumbs that I knock,
Off my workspace where dictionaries abound,
As do remnant crumbs, I keep pushing around.
My desk fan helps scatter crumbs in a hurry,
Papers fly, just like poetic snow flurries.
I now have an ideal work ethic, that’s all,
I eat as I type, a hygienic pitfall.
Yes, for breakfast, granola crumbs start the day,
Banana peels indicate lunch on the way,
Often my healthy egg whites stick to one spot,
They do tend to melt near my toddies, if hot.
It’s a blood sugar thing, really and truly,
Without my PM snack, I become surly.
My hands start to shake, my rhyme often suffers,
That’s why chocolate cake seems always to buffer,
Acrostic poems from being unruly,
Or an English Sonnet being all twirlie.
It’s my dedication and love of my craft,
That ensures the meter is tight in my drafts.
If it was my epitaph I were to write,
I’d write near chocolate, kept well out of sight,
Until about all my virtues I’d written,
And the warm cupcake, into which I’d bitten!