There’s a moose at the top of my bookshelf,
His antlers are touching the ceiling.
He always looks warm with his sweater and scarf
And he sees everything in the room.
He never says a word, just surveys the scene
And reminds me to look to my whimsey.
He doesn’t mind if my poems don’t rhyme
And forgives when my words are too flimsy.
At least I think he doesn’t mind because, as I said,
He doesn’t speak. He just sits up there being cute
While I slog along forgetting he’s there
Until sometimes I look up: I raise my eyes
And see and remember. I think everyone
Needs a moose at the top of their bookshelf.
+ + + + +
“That’s not a sonnet,” Beauregard sniffed.
“It has 14 lines, a certain rhythm,” I offered.
“It’s not consistent, there’s no rhyming pattern,” he insisted.
“Fair enough, I won’t call it a sonnet,” I conceded.
“Thank the stars,” Beauregard exhaled.
“I like it just the same,” I exulted.