COUNTING ON THE YOUNG–a dream poem

COUNTING ON THE YOUNG–a dream poem

 

 

Someone had to make many cookies, the young woman agreed,

so the old woman went to her house at the appointed hour but

Father said she’d gone dancing after the oven was warm

and all the raisins carefully measured and the nuts prepared.

So the old woman packed to go with her bowl of dough

under her arm–easier to bake at home where the harp is–

and her old boyfriend swished from the closet,  garbed like Oscar Wilde.

You can’t count on the young, he said, and she pointed

to a chipmunk on the windowsill.  I don’t know how they get in

but someone has to feed them, so they tossed some raisins

and fine chopped walnuts all across the windy room.

February 23, 2003

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