Strange, unknown books, voraciously read;

Sleeping ’til noon, every day in bed;

Blaming the dog for sneaking out thrice

Though not so, at home,

Where traps catch mice;

.

Waking, walking the dog, heading west

Without her, though in her house a guest;

Driving to mother’s, on the east side

But returning due east, direction

Defied;

Picture perfect, the story, revealed

In the way

The lips are now sealed, pressed tightly

Betraying

What really has happened

Yes, nearly complete. The lies,

Merely servant; the master:

Deceit.

.

.

.

.

.

© 5/23/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Rip me off, and I will cut you.

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