There I am, a mushroom in a storm,
trying to think of a poetic way
to say the streets have become a lake
and the rain is beating the waves
when the wind picks up and with my
mushroom cap, I can’t tell which way
it can be blowing and we sway
and become uprooted, cap reserved.
I, the mushroom elf, struggle
to right put my cap and then a snap
and my cap bends in like a sail
broken in a sea storm. Like the
flat fap on the belly of a senile cat,
who can’t jump off the bed anymore
without a crack in the joints.
What can a mushroom elf do,
but venture on through the lake,
transforming stem and hump
into beige rain boots and canvas
backpack and take sanctuary
in the classroom above the library.
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