What would you say if I told you that
a Great Horned Owl and a Bobtail Cat
were last seen driving on Interstate 10,
out for a Sunday afternoon spin,
when in the mirror that looks behind,
Bobtail, the driver, saw a troubling sign.
The car back there was black and white,
that, in itself, is not a worrisome sight,
but then the red lights started to flash
and Great Horned said: What about our stash?
This is high-quality, first class weed.
Do you think I can whimper and whine and plead
and save these baggies for another day?
Bobcat began to slow the car.
He pulled off at Teddy’s Outlaw Bar,
shut off the engine and awaited his fate,
knowing, full well, they were already late
for the party hosted by a pig and a crow,
how rude of the duo to not even show.
Then up walked the Trooper to the driver’s side door
while Owl was searching for a place in the floor
to hide the baggies of fresh grown weed,
all the while thinking: I’m going to need
a very good lawyer to represent me,
one, of course, with a reasonable fee.
Owl was always a frugal bird,
sometimes described, and this I’ve heard,
as frugality with a pair of wings.
To the surprise of Owl and Bobcat, too,
the Deputy Sheriff walked right through
all the cars lined up in the parking lot,
went into the bar and had a shot,
said his thirst was more than he could stand
and he used his red lights as part of his plan
to get to Teddy’s Outlaw Bar,
order a frosty Texas Lone Star
and watch the Cowboys hammer the Giants.
Well, to shorten this story a little bit,
Bobcat and Owl nearly had a fit
when the lawman left them alone that day.
Once over the shock, I heard Bobcat say:
I thought for sure we were going to jail.
I’ve never seen Owl turn so pale.
But truth be told, and this story is true,
(I would never lie to you)
Owl lit up a sweet cigarette,
turned to Bobcat and offered this bet:
ten to one says we’ll be there on time.
I think this poet is about out of rhyme.
He’s trying to end this lengthy tall-tale
and keep the both of us out of jail.
So, let’s help him out; it’s the least we can do.
Hey, poet…stop writing! This poem is through.
Thank God for birds like Great Horned Owl.
I was just about ready to throw in the towel.
I’m out of space and my words won’t rhyme.
I was having one hell of an awful time,
just trying to keep this poem alive,
and here it is, a quarter to five.
My brain has turned to mush!
Sonoran Desert Writer 