DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the naughty boy.

On  a wintry day when there's snow and ice

When the sun is out and the mood is nice.

And the streets have been plowed within an inch of their lives,

By trucks with plows as sharp as knives.

When fortune makes my heart to bleed

For a respite from the winter ennui.

To venture out from my garage

In my vintage Toyota car

Into the day's supreme mirage,

Some vittles from the store to buy,

Paid for in cash 

Things for a blithesome birthday bash.

Or some other solemn reason,

To mark a  lonesome season.

There are days I quire enjoy

Being quite the naughty boy.

Leaving the house quite on the sly,

Beats staying at home or waiting to die,

Until I come back home,

Accomplished and alone.

Get stuck turning into the drive,

On a mound of ice and snow besides.

Then I'm in a mighty pickle,

Left without a plow or sickle.

With only a plastic shovel,

A desire to creep inside my hovel,

Hide myself away in shame,

No one but myself to  blame.

An aborted day of fun,

Under the winter sun.

The only thing I enjoy,

About being a naughty boy,

Is the rush of being such,

That only lasts a little while,

'Til shoveling and motor gunning,

 Ceases soon to entertain,

A silly man with half a brain.

Perhaps I do enjoy too, the final respite from my labors,

The help received from thoughtful neighbors,

That put my car back in its place,

And a grateful smile upon this face. 

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the humble boy,

Never again to gamble on dangers,

But thankful alas for the goodness of strangers,

Who pulled me through in the nick of time,

Who inspired this most auspicious rhyme,

And who left this Parkinsonian in quite the writing mood,

To express his heartfelt gratitude.

-Bruce Potts

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