A Hundred Gourds 3:1 December 2013
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page 3  

Steven Carter - USA



—Rhyming with foghorn in countless mediocre poems. Me being me, I prefer Foghorn Leghorn, the loquacious Loony-Tunes rooster.

Seriously, folks, the word popped into my head when Charlie, my three-year-old grandson, somehow lost “Bear,” his constant companion. “Bear, Bear,” he kept calling, wandering from room to room searching for the teddy.

Finally Mum finds it and all’s well. In the blink of an eye—

When Charlie outgrows Bear, the poor little guy (Bear, not Charlie) will be stuffed in a box and put in a closet, nursing pap’s [ sic] of darkness forever, or until spring cleaning thirty years from now.

But I digress (I almost said regress! Well?).

—Three-year-olds dream, so I wonder if Charlie dreams about Bear. Does Bear come alive and talk? Will he—again, forlornly—tell Charlie: Bubba, pretty soon I’ll be kicked out of the den like a real bear. Next stop: the hall closet

I’ll never let that happen, Charlie shakes his head. Not in a million years.

time for Sesame Street--
on the blink

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