Some say I’ve the demeanor of that Peanut they call ‘Chuck’,
who seldom smiles, and travels miles, to test his lousy luck
at getting with a red-haired girl, who barely bats an eye,
at a boy who’d rope the moon for love to gift her bottled sky.
This is the tale of the grief that’s good-
Unless, there’s no such thing
that makes the children laugh at lines
where batters blow their swing.
Where, footballs never get a kick,
Great Pumpkins never show,
and boys below the age of six
spout all you need to know.
Or maybe…it’s all just bittersweet,
like chocolate that’s too dark,
where the aftertaste is grainy,
but there stews a certain spark-
to explain why not all rocks are bad,
nor jellybeans are good,
in a world where every ‘couldn’t’ line,
reminds me that I ‘could’.
-Amy Struthers (Approved by the Ministry of Quackly Affairs)