At the Mackenzie Art Gallery, the “vaults” (that’s a picture of them at the left) are where they keep the permanent collection, most of which is not on display at any given time. Here at edwardwillett.com, the vaults are the file folders on my computer, or the file folders in my filing cabinet, that have filled up with odds and ends and stuff over the years: bits of poetry, poems, unpublished short stories, unfinished novels, old newspaper columns, etc., etc. Some of it dates back thirty years…or more.
Every Saturday, I’m going to pull something out of the vaults and post it…just because.
And we start with…a poem.
As writer-in-residence I always warn poets who come to see me that I don’t write poetry.
Now you’ll know why.
There’s A Puppy in My Pocket
There’s a puppy in my pocket
And a kitten in my coat.
I’m not sure what’s in my Stetson,
But it may well be a stoat.
My shoes are full of shellfish
And my socks are full of squid,
And the turtle in my top-hat
Is about to flip its lid.
My jewelry box has June bugs
And my dresser’s full of things–
Not the shirts and shorts that I wear–
No, it’s full of things with wings.
I wake up quite sore each morning
‘Cause my mattress has a lump:
But it could be worse. At least that camel’s
Only got one hump.
A hyena ate my hair brush
And a cheetah chewed my chair,
And a fate too horrid to relate
Befell my underwear.
I still love my little bedroom,
And I think that you would too.
But I sometimes really wish it didn’t
Overlook the zoo.