The Lorac

A poem for October.

The Lorac went chog-clogging down Parsley Street,
Hopping and skipping with big chocolate feet.
His striped furry footfalls made a marigold dance
In the window-box garden of two ancient aunts.

Under the rainspout that drained the church roof
He landed and splashed, then slipped on with a whoof
That astounded two bullfrogs from their own youthful peeps
Into full-throated croaks, each croak ending in leaps.

The Lorac then loped up emergency stairs,
Fifteen rickety flights that careened through the air,
To borrow a broom and the janitor's bucket,
To sweep an old doorstop where someone had mucked it.

The Parsley Street Park was deserted that day
Except for those uncles with checkers to play.
They grumpily told the loud Lorac to leave,
So he did, and came back, bringing peppermint tea.

He brought it and turned like his cookies were burning,
And bounced down a path for some mud-puddle churning.
Neither uncles nor aunts ever saw him again.
Nor have I; maybe someday we'll learn where he's been.