Singing Grace

by Chuck A Stetson

“One less pill, will the fog abate?”
I asked Alice: she didn’t know.
“Silly her,” said the dormouse.
“Her mind is moving low,”
a man on the chessboard said;
he wouldn’t tell me where to go.
“She’s usually ten feet tall,” said the White Knight.
“How so?” asked the Red Queen, convinced
logic and proportion remained sloppy dead —
a hookah-smoking caterpillar pondered my eyes.
“Watch out for the one that mother gives you,” said Alice.
“It does nothing at all.”
“Off with my head,” I motioned.
We all laughed.

© chuck a stetson 2015