Scribbles

by matthew scott harris
(schwenksville, pennsylvania)

When my grown daughters were infants, I
took stock and swore most every other couple
happened to be proud of spring of newborns.
Similar to any vehicle I owned.
There appeared to be a sudden surge of drivers who sat behind the wheel of a ford escort. Subaru, Hyundai Sonata.
I submit a letter of complaint from a fictional character to his or her or its creator about his, her or its portrayal.

Bah humbug to you Charles Dickens
who made my life miserable with Slim Pickens
only faux joy in counting stash, which pile sickens
since many a hungry waif or vagabond begs in vain

such human blight where charity or good Samaritans train
their efforts, these sainted persons ought to be given more rein
to eviscerate great expectations, and incomprehensible why stain

and a proposition per the muffin man, who lives on Drury Lane
flush with nonsaleable baked goods at days end
to stave thee indigent bumping uglies where the horn of plenty doth flourish
necessitating the intervention of underdog, Superman or Citizen Kane

ought to be enlisted to resolve this economic disparity,
where desperation goads innocents abroad like Tom or Jane
or desperado basket of deplorable to beg, borrow or steal, which…iz insane.
thus Scrooge realizes that haint nuttin to gain
squirreling and hoarding piles of precious coins.

Keystone Gray