I write for a multitude of reasons, among them, because I have the time and desire.  Writing offers me another of the many opportunities in which to learn and hopefully, share.

The Late Mr. Putt

Nightmares?  They’re an acquired taste,
at least the ones in which the need
to feast upon a full course spread
on which a crowd of ten might feed.
Recall the plight of Mr. Putt,
the late, who ate himself to death.

The coroner’s report said that
he died with pillow on his breath.
It’s often said that dying in
your sleep in dreams, ‘the way to go’
lends softness to a mattress, deep
in blankets, deep in dreams.  Pillow
to lay your weary head, for bones
a bed in which nightmares will creep
to choke away your life like Putt.
He ate his bed while fast asleep.

Devouring his sheets, Putt had
all night to eat a three course bed.
So ravenous in nightmare, had
he woken, he’d be stuffed.  Instead
Putt ate his blankets, mattress too.
Putt even ate the bed springs.  He
choked on the mattress label.  Fool.
Removal warns of penalty.