“…and a poem is a thoughtful art form bringing order and
tranquility into our shattered, chaotic cosmos, restoring
the natural tempo of…
OH!
Excuse me!
I hear my grandsons scream in the yard!
I think he just flew off the tire swing!
He might have missed the mulch completely!

This is two hours later, my dear.
Apparently, my daughter was just pulling
into the drive way when a projectile,
her son,
flew past her front window.
She, understandably, fainted,
thereby, unconsciously, you see,
crashing her BMW into the corner of
the front porch, collapsing the roof.
The appropriate emergency personnel have been marshaled.
Both Viola and Jason are well,
healing at their home under the gentle
ministrations of my wife, Astrid,
with the energetic enthusiasms of Viola’s
(semitic) husband, Seymour.

Now then, where was I?
Oh, yes.

…to restore the natural tempo of ahh..
Yes! an otherwise unpredictable existence.

There. I think that reads rather well,
don’t you Miss Meriweather”?