The following is just a little silliness playing with Michael Brownstein’s Story Challenge from August 8th. I did not require myself to follow any rules, it’s just some play with words to get these creative juices flowing after dealing with a couple weeks of the dreaded Covid.
“Kidnapped!,” cried the wife.
“Surely he’s been used
to train the fighting dogs,
ground into the dust
by a rabid beast near
five times our little Weiner!
“Or maybe they’ve taken my poor poochie
to be force fed Metamucil,
eyes highlighted with forever mascara,
cheeks bearing fresh pressed powder,
tongue licking desperately
at a bright new sparkle red
48-hour wet-look
Scarlet Kiss lipstick!
“It has to be those horrible girls down the street,
playing dress up in some
godawful hot dog bun,
a polka-dotted dress with
Sausage’s humiliated tail
tucked under his belly in shame!
“Dear Lord!
It’s those mean boys,
throwing his ball
deep into the woods,
further each time,
while my fur-baby keeps
searching the shadows,
until it is lost
and so is my little Kielbasa,
whimpering for his dinner bowl,
chin pouting on a mossy tree-root!
“No more blue sky walks to the park,
the south wind a dog-lover
blowing through his facial hair,
under his big-bone medallion collar,
finger-breezes ruffling through his back fur
as he prances proud down the sidewalk!
“Oh, Father!
I’ll never forgive you that
doggie-door to the backyard,
the loose boards in the fence,
nor the oft-left-open gate,
as you always bring in too much from the grocer,
not watching as he wanders away unwary,
lost in the tickle of the grass you forgot to trim
out round the distant garage!”
“Dear Woman, do not fret!,”
I tried to console.
“Sausage has not been ground down,
nor has he met demise,
kissed her full with a Maybelline mouth,
or over-filled some distant field with piles,
Kibbles now bits and bits and bits
until passing exhausted
when he had no more to offer.
“And don’t worry about the children
hell-bent on tummy-rubs,
scuffed-knees licked Bactine-clean
by that Lov-a-mutt.
They all are down by the schoolyard,
hip-scotching the double-dutch or
shooting horses and pigs off the rims,
rebounding the dodging balls,
boys concerned more with cooties,
girls more worried about boys
pulling at their pig-tails,
than distant thoughts of our poochie,
any weiner-dog dreams
quickly forgotten
in the cacophony of
playful screams and laughter.
“My poor Dear,
our Schnitzel is snoring
peacefully under the porch,
happily remembering a stray toss,
kicking joyfully at
the ghost of a belly-scrub,
a scritch-scratch heaven or
the bounce of a stray noodle
from table to my tummy-shelf,
barely gracing the floor
before being lapped up,
his every toenail put on high alert
to the possibility
I could still spill another treat.
“And please, Darling, never fear,
Sausage is only your forever dress-up doll:
the bow-tie collared groom
bounding up the stairs,
leaping upon the bed
to lick your puppy-loving toes!”
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
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