Photo: nostalgia by Meghan Shaffer
I Met a Man with 7 Wives
I grew up at the shoes of Mother Goose
in the glare of all that shiny patent leather,
the buckles digging into my back as I memorized
pages of bold-face rhymes, nonsensical stanzas:
Humpty’s fall, Jack Sprat’s fat-eating wife,
Mother Hubbard’s bone-less dog.
My constant companion while jumping over the moon,
its checkerboard cover grimy with childhood soot--
jam grit, snot streaks, crayon scribbles.
I cut my writer’s teeth on pease porridge hot
cross buns while watching Mary’s garden grow
from inside my pumpkin shell.
Each night I’d fall fast asleep under the haystack
waiting for little boy blue to come blow his horn
singing hey-diddle-diddle this little piggy has none