zafusy

“Have a start,
give a squirt,”
hose and sprinkler blurt.

“Pick, shovel,
take that wagon
and dig it,
drive the hole.”
Try to come up with the mole.

We dug a bucketful.
Rototilled, hillocks
were hurtin’to play,
but the mole played through.

“Dig deep, Pap.
Tomorrow, no, you back?
That one mole makes two
will multiply our woe.”

Endangered by the hole bairn
foursomes drove
the official tee,
but in the cup a waste,
the mole made liver paste.

Now we got the mole course safe
ask first, what you shoot?

Oh well.
Eighteen aces.
Mole holes out.

A.E. Reiff

View all poems by A.E. Reiff