My Christmas Vacation
By Auntiesue

There was an Elf Helper named Sue,
For Christmas to Boston she flew.
But the plague, it descended;
All plans it upended;
And Christmas was canceled ó boo hoo!

From: To Kill A Mockingbird

“Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summerís day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Menís stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-oíclock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.î

For Adam, this poem by Billy Collins from his book Sailing Around the Room

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in The House

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

One for me, from the same book (thanks, Diane) :

Bar Time

In keeping with universal saloon practice,
the clock here is set fifteen minutes ahead
of all the clocks in the outside world.

This makes us a rather advanced group,
doing our drinking in the unknown future,
immune from the cares of the present,
safely harbored a quarter of an hour
beyond the woes of the contemporary scene.

No wonder such thoughtless pleasure derives
from tending the small fire of a cigarette,
from observing this glass of whiskey and ice,
the cold rust I am sipping,

or from having an eye on the street outside
when Ordinary Time slouches past in a topcoat,
rain running off the brim of his hat,
the late edition like a flag in his pocket.†