Practical Poetry

I sat down in my big chair
To read a little Billy Collins today
I did not get very far
Because of the voices of ghosts.

I could hear my fathers sigh,
As he mumbles under his breath,
“That will not get you far,
why waste the day.”

I could hear my mother scold
(She has never said anything under her breath.)
“Read something real
a practical book is what you need.”

As I shook those old voices from my head
Something moved in the corner.
I jerked my head,
Only to see a Roach.

I jumped from chair barefoot
(because shoes hurt my ankles)
and rushed to the scene.
I took a swing and missed.

Then he moved again.
I brought my copy of “Picnic Lighting”
Down fast and sharp
And smashed it on the floor

Parents are not always right,
Old voices are a joke
My practical poetry took me far
And the roach is dead on the floor.