On Holiday with a Weasel

The blue-hairs crowd the boardwalk
enjoying the late summer sun
once school starts up. They chatter about
discount fares and room service.
They buy ice cream and candy from my cart.

The two with the weasel—yeah, I know it's weird
but a pet's a pet, I guess. They're staying
in a non-smoke-free motel
not because it's cheaper, but because
(according to the shorter one) the smell
of stale smoke reminds them
of dear departed Harry.

Who's Harry? Husband, brother, son
to one or the other, I don't know
even if they're sisters or just friends.
A sugar-cone of bubble-gum for one, the other
wants blackberry swirl on waffle.
They turn away, the goods in hand
tugging on the leash. "C'mon, Harry."

Collection available! Knocking from Inside