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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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