She burned the oatmeal
while weeping again over that stupd carrot,
the one that startled her
dangling before surprised eyes,
swinging so close to her nose
she thought she could smell it,
and the breeze of her fingers set it spinning.
It pulled her forward
remaining just, oh just out of reach,
but she could see it's perfection --
the golden glow and that plume of green.
She heard the seller's voice extolling sweetness,
and she longed for that sharp snap,
the crunch between her teeth
and sugar on her tongue.
Snatched away it was,
and sour grapes played no role in discovery
for it was merely Garden Ridge plastic,
an item for display in a table arrangment,
something pretty to gaze upon and occasionally dust
but nothing to allay hunger,
no sweet orange taste on the tongue
and certainly no satisfying crunch.
Now she just feels like an ass
who followed bait set to swing
before eyes longing for more than pasture.
How I Named My Blog
Being a poet and an occasional pun-ster, the "Not on the Road" title is multi-layered. First, it was a response to old Jack K's "On the Road," since I'm definitely not he. Also, I've moved around a bit throughout my life (like in the last two and a half years!), and I'm sick of being ON the road. And of course, being an animal lover and very active in dog rescue work, I don't like seeing animals, wild or domestic ON the road, dead or alive.