The Master.


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


Picture perfect, the story, revealed

In the way

The lips are now sealed, pressed tightly


What really has happened

Yes, nearly complete. The lies,

Merely servant; the master:







© 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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