MOJO
In a break from my normal Friday blogette… a bit of a spontaneous five minute poem, prompted by that post being unwell, and looking after other unwell ones, feeling, where the old mojo appears to have gone walk about, and also sparked by a twitter conversation.
MOJO
My mojo is a bran flake
down the back of the settee.
Soft and kind of wrinkly
and definitely past its best I want to
leave it there,
push it back,
find another more appealing.
But when I reach my hand in,
I find another.
I have two bran flake mojos.
Heavens! What to do?
And how many more are there?
And how come there are two?
I feed one to my dog
and nibble on the other,
making a note on my pink lip post-it…
next time, make it a frostie.
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