Comforts

I knew an old imp who lived in an egg

He hobbled the streets cobbled

on a wooden leg.

Go, he would, to the corner store.

For what, although, he was

never quite sure.

He would buy bread and tea

and cheese.

And conveniently forget the

pepper which always made him sneeze.

Back to his house

he would hobble

like the greying old grouse

To put away his newly got buys

In a pantry

next to freshly baked pies

And then

like an old tired hen

he would quietly steal to his den.

With a teapot full of teas

All brewing with graceful ease

And a tobacco filled pipe

Of the corncob type

Near the fire he would aspire

to slip with particular care

into his favourite and most comfortable chair.

For now, he was in his nook

Reading his favourite book

Relaxed and pleased

All his senses appeased

He would fall asleep

And dream of fluffy white sheep.

by M. Perron (Originally written October 9, 1989)

Notes: This is a self-protrait of me at the time… I saw myself as some sort of hobbit, I guess. Happily living alone, with all my creature comforts to keep me company.