T.S. Elliot’s poem The Waste Land described April as the cruelest month, but looked toward the light. This National Poetry Month of April, our hopeful nine-year-old refused to write about a virus. Although we talked about another spring break to Miami, it did not come to fruition.
Instead, our sweet boy conjured a spring break poem about three years ago.
Chompy the Alligator
Our fierce family of four forged forward in the Everglades.
We squinted to spy dark dinosaur descendants on a daring adventure.
Our brave boat breezed like a bird.
Alligators aimed, hissed and roared.
They swatted big scary, scaly tails.
They blended with beady, sneaky swamp and sought shade from scorching sun.
Screech, their sharp teeth ruptured small animals as we sweat.
We fled filthy wetlands for the frantic frenzy of South Beach.
We cooled off in our resort pool. We named our alligator float Chompy Picasso.
We still bust a move with old school spring break favorites, including “Miami” to get “jiggy with it.” Best wishes. XOXO