Creeping Meatballism

in a mindless world,

made him run into the woods

when whippoorwills called.


With all the comforts of home,

he now lives in a cozy room

in a tree house on a Red-Maple.

His smiling face sits warming

before a homemade fireplace.

Chirping chickadees sing melodies

that soothe his troubled brow.

Roustabout squirrels scratch his back.

In the evening breeze, swaying branches

with leaves make him dance like Fred Astaire.

He’s lulled into a heavenly sleep under

a comforting blanket of pulsating stars.

A friendly mountain lion sleeps at his feet.

Awakened by the kiss of the rising sun,

he listens to a chorus of mourning doves,

start-up performers for Harry James’s rendition

of “My Blue Heaven,” that rings in his ears.