One of our poets is missing today.
Was he abducted? Did he just run away?
Did he leave on a horse? On a bike? On a sleigh?
Or, in deep pensive thought, did he just go astray?
One of our poets is missing, but why?
We promised him everything, well, perhaps not the sky.
And daily we fed him our best pecan pie.
How could he leave without saying “Good-bye?”
Our poet is missing, our children are sad.
“Were all of our poems really that bad?
Did we do something horrid that made him real mad?
If he would come back, we would all be so glad.”
Our poet, who’s missing, has left us a note,
“I’m leaving for Portugal on a cruise boat.
I’m tired of wearing a big winter coat.
I’d rather sit in the sun, drink a cold orange float.”
“To the snow and the cold, I am saying ‘Adieu.’
To shoveling snow, and to each one of you.
‘Twixt cold icy winters and skies ever blue,
It’s quite easy to choose, so, so-long, too-da-loo.”
(I woke up one morning with the first line running through my head — no idea where it came from. What else could I do but write a few more lines to go with it.)
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