Ragamuffin

I'd rather not admit
this ragamuffin is mine.
He doesn't care a whit
about the finer things of life.
Perma press is not his style;
he likes his jeans ragged
and open at the knee.

His room, a conglomeration
of nails, screws,
fishing poles
and dirty socks,
should be condemned.

My mortgaged house,
holding place for his inventions,
someday, I know, will go boom!
I need more insurance.

Today I have a headache.
Hark! Is that an angel there,
disguised as a boy
with a smudged face,
bringing me aspirin,
kissing my cheek,
telling me I'll be all better?

This ragamuffin's mine!

~Copyright 1993 Ruth Gillis~

Previously published in Lines N' Rhymes 1994


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