The snooze alarm chimed a second time.
This lazy poem was snoring. So I said,
“Hey get out of bed. Get up, brush your teeth,
take a shower, it’s time to hit the road again.”
This poem rolled over, and
pulled the covers over its head.
“Come on, time to go.”
“Get out of here, leave me alone.”
I tickled the poem’s foot and
all it did was kick out at me and
curl up, fetal-like.
“I’ll leave without you, I promise.”
“Go ahead, leave me alone.”
“You’ll miss those killer pancakes at George’s in Walsenburg.”
“Shove it. I don’t like pancakes anymore.”
“Seeing all the antelope in the hi-lo country.”
“Big deal. Leave me alone.”
“Key lime pie at the Rising Star Bakery in Santa Fe.”
“We’ll be late for the book fair in Albuquerque.”
Nothing got this poem out of bed.
As a last resort, my suitcase in hand,
I said, “See you later, pal.”
I slammed shut the door and went out and
sat in the car. Sure enough, a minute later
the poem came running out, naked,
yelling, “Wait.” And rushed into the car.
I took one look and smell of it and said,
“You’re not going anywhere with me until
you brush your teeth, and take a shower.”
“But everyone’s going to see me naked.”
“They already did.”
“Then I’m going back to bed.”
And it did.