We probably all did it.       .       .

not only played in mud.         .         .

but actually

A        T        E          I      T

.        .        .No

it wasn’t probably one of my brightest thoughts

or better days

but then again

sometimes the

l            e            s            s            o            n            s

we  learn  aren’t  the  most

tastiest

but they do cause an

unforgettable memory.          .          .

I remember the day

I remember playing by myself in the side yard

with a spoon

that doubled as a

shovel

or a food digger.          .          .

What I don’t remember

is when I wrote the poem

or obviously where I put

the scrap of paper

I scribbled it on.        .          .

M   U   D        P   I   E   S

I  re-member
the  first  mud  pie
I  ever  ate
Tasted  like  none  other
Made  it  myself
playing  in
side yard
dirt  pile
looked  like
Nestle’s  Quick
Stirred  in
Dribbled  hose  water
mixed oh so messily
t     h     i     c     k
no  stones  for
supposed  crunches
big  soup  spoon
didn’t  daintily  taste
boldly  gulped
too proud
to spit out
too  embarrassed  to  admit
for  many  calendar  pages  later
yet  still  knowing
it  wasn’t  the  worst
thing  I  ever
m  o  u  t  h  e  d
or
t  a  s  t  e  d
even  now
the  smile  has  never
ceased
or  begun
to  wane
intoxicatingly
d e l i c i o u s
May  I  have
A  N  O  T  H  E  R

It’s been a long time.        .        .

running through a mud puddle

or  eating  a horrible mud pie

thought to be the richest

most indulgent of chocolates.        .         .

uhhhhhhh.        .        .

maybe too long.        .         .

but there’s always another mud puddle

that awaits

calls

taunts

Even  now

it   continues   to   teach:

JUST   BECAUSE

THE   WATER   SETTLES

DOESN’T  MEAN

I    HAVE    TO.        .        .

You?

Come on.         .        .

I hear the water is fine

.          .          .and the taste.          .          .

s e c o n d     t o     n o n e