Creative Writing Sections: Puddlesuds by Elynor Gregorich

For months, nothing but drops Of falling rain. It rotted the estival buds to blacked nubs.

Each lump of slime tumbled Into the pond along the hedge. Each fingerbranch is now is humbled and bare, like a bride whose fumbled ring washed into the gutter.

The accumulated puddle sits on sludge, a slurry of dirt collected by the deluge settling into a fudgy cream under the water. Any lumbering thing is sucked down to the level Of the pebbles below.

Bubbles rise from the lungs of the mud duffer Sleeping under the chocolate foam. He laughs at the bumbling antics Of mundane waders Whose careless feet wander under And then refuse to budge from their muddy sockets. The invaders jump and wheel when he bumps their ankles And tickles their toes.

They numbingly squelch back to boards, With clods slumping to the solid lumber underfoot. Galoshes, gaiters, and umbrella are dumped on the mat, while muddy pillars stumble onward. A proud march to Pomp & Circumstance: A trailing promenade to the tub.

Now, a struggle is involved for the mud. Its clear ichor is pumped from the faucet. The lifeblood competes with the glop- A daring kung fu between ivory soap And sloppy soil.

Puddlesuds wink and drain down the grate, Taking no umbrage at their comeuppance. They follow the plumber’s road, chuckling at every turn in the pipe Until they are dumped back in a ditch And glide under a culvert, To trickle back to the duffer’s hole And wait for the next visit from The children who escape and run From their dry, glum minders. Puddlesuds come home.

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