Here's a poem I wrote while driving through southern Australia, recently. It's possible I shouldn't do this sort of thing while jet lagged after a 15 hour flight over the Pacific. Or maybe this is my new, true calling. It's so hard to say.
Was that a Dead Wombat?
Was that a dead wombat I just passed?
He was a blobby, little guy.
Should I go back?
No, people will think,
"Look at that weirdo posing with a dead wombat."
Someone called me a Yank this morning.
They'll definitely suspect it if I go back for the wombat.
But, I might not get to see another one.
How far back was it?
Who wants to see pictures of a dead wombat?
Melissa, Melissa definitely does.
She'd tell me to go back
And forget what people might think.
When will I be here again?
Never again to see a dead wombat.
I'm going back.
How many kilo-meters have I gone?
There'll probably be another one.
They don't seem real smart.