Holiday Leftovers Dinner?

The once-mighty turkey is … slight.
There’s not a potato in sight.
The gravy’s spread thinner –
More snack-like than dinner.
The fridge was attacked late last night.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
The once-mighty turkey is … slight.
There’s not a potato in sight.
The gravy’s spread thinner –
More snack-like than dinner.
The fridge was attacked late last night.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
He says hi there;
she says hello.
“Which floor?” he asks.
She doesn’t know.
His finger waits,
then starts to tap.
Her face turns red.
She thinks, “Oh crap.
Why can’t I think?
Just pick a floor!”
Her brain congeals.
He taps some more.
“Just. Pick. A. Floor.”
That thought now slips
from clotted brain
through tense, pursed lips.
With sideways glance
and impish smirk,
he presses 12.
(Joker? Or Jerk?)
Long, silent ride
can’t end too soon.
It seems to take
all afternoon.
She ruminates
entire ride,
should parting words
be kind? Or snide?
She isn’t sure
how this should end –
Just like my awkward
poem, my friend.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
I love gentle rain (yep, you bet),
but I do not like floods, tears, or sweat.
Love lakes, streams, and seas,
and love raindrops that freeze.
But I most love my liquid assets.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Photo of “The Bean,” by Poppa
When your leader suggests disinfectant,
ingestible or an injectant,
should you chuckle or cry
or heave a big sigh
and wonder what you were expectin’?
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Okay so part of me feels guilty about this one, but we gotta laugh, right?!
Found this fun one on Cartoon Stock. Super fun, Tarnowski!
When the hubby attempts do to plumbing,
I’ll hear him sporadically humming.
Then hints of some fumbling
bring mumbling and grumbling.
That’s when I know cursing’s forthcoming.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
This little beauty is no longer six, wouldn’t want to be six, and would probably want me to let you know this is not based on a true story. But I paired my poem with this pic because, well, I love her death and the ‘tude totally works. 😉 Not sure who snapped this shot. Maybe her daddy?
“I think I’ll be six now forever and ever,”
she said, and I told her she’d need to be clever
to pull off this whimsical, wondrous endeavor.
Now, did I believe her? I didn’t. However,
she smirked as she pulled out her six-ever lever.
‘K. Whatever.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
(This is a sequel to Now We are Six, by the extraordinary A. A. Milne. My poem begins with his final line.)
Image by Gerd Altmann via Pixabay
I have to admit
I’ve been syllabically
abusive to you.
I may call you poem
or po-em, depending on
my need at the time,
not even giving
thought to how this makes you feel.
Please forgive me, poem.
And please understand
this earnest apology
stated at this time
will remain sincere
whether at any time I
choose po-em, or poem.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019