There is no such thing as a service giraffe.
That chihuahua in the red vest has its nervous lady.
Quick. Say, Boo! Say, The DOW dropped six percent in early trading.
Say, You walk under the sun, even when it rains.
In moments like these, I feel more mortal than usual.
I feel I should not have said, Everyone smells like natural gas.
I feel an unconsummated love for mac and cheese.
I believe I could house a service church mouse in my waistcoat pocket.
But crafting a red mouse-sized vest would be tedious.
Less difficult than building a city spanning the Grand Canyon.
Less difficult than requiting America’s instant gratification needs.
Less difficult than writing a poem about fireplace creosote.
Look, that octogenarian by the pastry counter wears a red vest.
I bet he is someone’s service grandpa.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney