Bad Lawrence Poetry #3

Puddle Puddle Puddle.
It is nearly the 5th of May.
There’s still
Puddle Puddle Puddles.
The coffee I got, tasted like
Puddle water.
Why is my iced cup of puddle water
At Least my croissant is. Flakey. And Buttery.
Some would call this.
Highway robbery.
Trying to race.
Contact trace.
Contact race.
Who can outrun Covid…
In the contact race.
Running. Running. Running.
To La Quinta.
An Airbnb.
The Comfort Inn.
I took a Covid-19 test the other week.
The line was
Murky, brown, wet,
Like the puddle that was well acquainted with,
Mr. Birkenstock
Mr. B loves long walks in early May.
He knows the puddles are gone by then.
However, now he
Muddles, muddles, muddles.
Drenched with every step.
Mr. B is put back on the shelf.
It’ll be 60 this weekend.
With a windchill of negative sixty.
Did you hear there’s a chance of snow?
Lawrence, can you change the weather?
Antojitos? Can you not give me food poisoning?
Birkenstock, can you wait a week?
Soon, the puddles, puddles, puddles.
Will be dry, dry, dry.
Til’ then, I’ll wait…
holding my puddle latte,
Disguised as a large iced chai.