The Little Rat

My son was a rat for Halloween. Okay, he was a mouse, but I call him Rat, so it fit. Why do I call him Rat? It's been his nickname since he was one week old because he was (and is) so squeaky. Stop turning your noses up because you don't like rats.

This poem never happened. Why do people always assume that poetry is truth? They aren't. A poem usually is based in fact...based. One image may be reality, the rest? Fiction. Poets create characters and plots just like a novelist...just in a different form.


Afternoon Discovery

I play pool. I aim
toward the faces
scribbled with marker, courtesy
of my 17-month old son who snuck
his fingers into my scrapbook crate.
Each tiny ball sports
different colored eyes
and what -I think- are pointy
teeth. Some have four noses
and undulating mouths
or a sinister grin. We sit
on the scratchy carpet
while I show him how to aim
and hit. He colors my hands red.

The game is one of those miniature pool tables, in case you're confused.