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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