goldibear & the three glocks

one was a flaxenpelt child of the woods
one was a fabled land far & away
one was a weapon well favored by hoods
one was a thin-metal tonic array.

she played the third glock* sadly–golden yet blue
and daydreamed she lived on the shore of the first**
the second*** she shot in an old switcheroo
on film and in cinemascope: “i could burst.”

in the tradition that scholars call oral
stories are told to your children for teaching
this tale’s for grownups & here is the moral:
“old switcheroos are ofttimes overreaching.”

THE END

* glockenspiel
** glocca morra
*** glock 9mm

This is a happy day, Friends. It’s the LAST DAY of National Poetry Writing Month, and with this poem I fulfill the requirement I set for myself of writing at least one poem each day of the Month.  I feel like I am crossing the Finish Line; even so, I might try to squeeze off seven more poems/posts for a nice round 50. (Or might not. [smiles])