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by Marmalade Read
A way out back behind the house,
Where
no one goes, not even a mouse,
Where shrubs grow wild and uncontrolled,
(It's a jungle there, if truth be told)
There
is a place that's seen by none.
It's known to me as Possum Run.
They run at night when all are in,
They creep
and crawl and make no din,
From river's bend to Delta Ponds,
Through weedy grass and bushy fronds,
Possums make their
nightly trip,
While rain drops fall in silent drip.
But I am here always on guard,
And hear the rustlings in
the yard.
I am a cat, The Marmalade,
I will not for a fool be played.
I sit on sill and glare through screen,
I
watch the wanderings they think aren't seen.
I leap up high to hiss and snarl,
And get my tail all in a gnarl.
As
always happens without fail,
I hang from screen by one poor nail.
Mom, from bed where she's been nooked,
Gets up
to get my nail unhooked.
The lights go on, the bedspring squeaks,
And dire grumblings are all she speaks.
Never
mind, in all the rumpus,
The possums flee in angry grumpus.
I have been good, my job is done,
And all is quiet on
Possum Run.
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