Bo Peep Tells the Real Story
When I got home Mom and Dad started yelling
Where are your sheep? Where are your sheep?
And how did your beautiful dress get ripped?
Well, what was I to say: those sheep are no damn good?
We were hardly out of sight of the farmhouse
when their hairy ears popped up and
they were twirling their mustaches
and leering. Then the pawing began.
I ran and ran. I didn’t want them following me home.
Next thing you know we’d have been in bed.
Believe me—believe me:
they were no lambs.
Just ask Little Red.
Phyllis Wax writes in Milwaukee on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, both print and online. She has read her poems on the radio, and in coffee shops and bars. They have been exhibited in fiber art/poetry shows in galleries, libraries, a bank and a theater lobby. She co-edited the 2002 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar. Phyllis can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.