Poem: Whack A Mole

Whack a Mole

It’s become a game.
Every morning, a new one. Maybe two
little demons pop up. You never know
which one, so you stand alert,
your collection of mallets raised,
ready, waiting to choose just the right one
to beat today’s beastie back into its hole.
They wait there. Until the next time,
hoping when they spring out at you
you miss.

But you have been well trained.
You are quick of eye and hand.
Not quick enough to kill,
but quick enough to play the game
and most days,
send those suckers back into their hole.

About this poem.

Today I woke up flat. Yesterday I woke up down. Other days I wake up…. you get the idea. But I had a great therapist years ago who armed me with a host of hammers. An hour or so of whack-a-mole and life is good. Today it was conversation with the woman I love, and some rollicking blues at my favorite diner, singing a chorus or two with the cook.

The picture is a stock photo. Not one of mine.

Tom

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