 This photo is fuzzy because the habitat was dimly lit, but it is still clear who went to sleep first. Yellow armadillos snoozing:
naptime at the zoo. These fellows usually frolic, but today there's something new: a double-decker armadillo, one stacked on the other! I wonder which one gets to choose who snoozes on its brother. Do they chat about it nicely? Do they argue? Flip a dime? Have a gentlemen's agreement? Is it different every time? In the middle of the night, Does Mamadillo make them swap? I think whoever stays awake the longest gets the top. About this poem: We visit the Wildlife World Zoo and Aquarium a lot because it's just down the road, and we've named many of the animals. These little yellow armadillos we call Malcolm and Griffin, after my sons. They're usually digging in the sand or chasing each other playfully (I think playfully...). Not today. "Armadillo" is an easy rhyme with "pillow," but there were no pillows in sight today--just an armadillo bunk bed! (I stretched the truth for the poem--their mom does not share their den--it's just the two of them on their frolicsome own.)
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 ...there's SOMETHING weird perched somewhere up there in our family tree... Uncle Bobby says I hatched
from an egg with polka dots. He says my brother hatched from one with pink and purple spots. He says our mother sat on us for forty-seven weeks before we pecked our way to freedom with our pointy orange beaks. Uncle Bobby says the webs between our toes dissolved and then our stubby wings fell out before our spindly arms evolved. I think I don’t believe him. But (just between you and me)? There’s something strange perched somewhere up there in our family tree. About this poem: When my boys were about three and four, the oldest asked if he'd come from an egg. I said yes, and continued with what I thought was a brilliantly simple yet accurate response. My listeners glazed over, then dismissed it as nonsense. So the next time he asked, I said, yes, they'd hatched from eggs alright—Malcolm's had a purple shell and Griffin’s was green. That was much more satisfying for all parties. There is a time and a place for lying, and it is in the home when you have small children. Writing this poem, I thought about how everyone feels like their family is a little bit (or a lot bit) strange and crazy. In real life, Uncle Bobby is a family friend. His knees do not bend backwards. At least not that I'm aware of. |
authorMs. Betsy's oldest surviving poem is one she wrote in the third grade. "Down in the Sewer" didn't make her popular, but it made a small group of loyal fans very cheerful. Some of the latest poems she's written, "Poems of Galapagos," appeared in Cricket Magazine's July/August 2020 issue. She hopes they'll reach a wider audience than her first poem did, and make more people cheerful...and possibly provoke some thoughts, as well. Archives
March 2021
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