Goldilocks
No one ever mentions Goldie's parents,
why they let her go into the woods
or what it was she was looking for
that they couldn't give.
All we hear about
is this little bird
out there all by herself
tasting porridge,
muddying carpets,
breaking chairs,
trampling on the hospitality of bears.
Who came to the rescue
when she woke up
to the prospect of fur and claws and teeth?
You know how it goes:
Ma was home with a milk pail over her arm.
And Pa was busy pulling Bossy to the pasture
like a heavy toy on a string.
Both of them worn to a frazzle,
caught in work's terrible web.
No, Goldie learned her manners all alone,
chilled to the bone in the woods
while grownups squinted through early chores unaware.
Awakened by grunts and growls
she ran all the way to the barn,
her little red cap askew,
her long curls wild,
her shadow growing behind her.
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