A Poem For Sharon's Mother
When I was young my mother read
us fairy tales and stories,
poems whose rhymes still fill my head,
Suess's allegories,
Lewis Carroll's Alice stuff,
the little train that could.
You'd think it would have been enough
and yet my mother would
read us poems not on the shelf,
"poems of smut," she called them,
dirty lines she wrote herself.
How fondly I recall them!
"Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
beating the egg of his phallus."
Lewis Carroll didn't know all
the dirt contained in Alice.
|