Shit happens. Everybody gets their share;
the sorry stuff doesn’t discriminate –
it hits the fan and then it’s everywhere.
Nobody ducks until it’s far too late.
A canny lass can never have too many
plans for confronting an emergency.
A sonnet is as good a way as any.
It did for Shagsberg; it’ll do for me.
So sock it to me, Sunshine. I can take it.
I’ll dredge the sludge for something new to say.
I’ll squeeze the mental Plasticine and make it
sing itself. Waste not, want not. That’s the way
Creative Writers learn to deal with it.
This is the way a poet handles shit.
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