On the Alberta/Montana Border: Productive Time

Despite the fact they couldn’t find the loot for jobs (times three!)

And though they’d looked (and pestered and he left them all ‘at sea’,)

Their son had been arrested—doing time for robbery,

His dad wrote him a letter wishing he could soon be free,

“I’m getting old, my boy,” he said. “And I just can’t see me

Plowing fields to get them ready for spring’s planting spree.”

The boy wrote back, said, “Dad! Please do not plow there past the trees!

I’ve buried ‘something’ there I don’t wish anyone to see,

I will not say just what it is to you, my conferee,

Because they read my letters here. You know that part is key,

If the cops were to discover what I left, you will agree,

My situation here would be compounded terribly!”

A few days later came a letter for the addressee,

Again, ‘twas from his father and the note was filled with glee,

“I’m not quite sure what happened, Son,” the letter said to he,

“But I’d just got your letter when some cops came o’er the lee,

And dug and dug and turned the soil as far as I could see,

Then disappointed, packed and left me with a field’s debris,

I don’t know why they came, my boy—what purpose there could be,

But now I’ll get my planting done. A miracle you’ll agree!”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?