Little Ditty

I was watching Bugs Bunny,

Sylvester, and Yosemite Sam

when a friend phoned from the coast.

His Navy life was mindless he said,

every day planned, every night damned.

He said he missed the crickets at night

and his voice sounded desperate and drowning.

But I had to laugh just then,

Bugs shot Sam in the ass.

Hugh Findlay writes a lot, sometimes publishes, and would rather be caught fishing. He mows his lawn on Saturdays, naps daily, and reverses his underwear in a pinch. He can fix anything but the crack of dawn and broken hearts, just ask his kids. He once defrosted a Thanksgiving turkey with a blow dryer up its butt. He cooks a pretty good gumbo but can’t sing or dance. He doesn’t believe in god or time or the “Euro step.” He’s colorblind but can smell like a bloodhound. He quit dying his hair and pole vaulting. He feels funny in suspenders. He grows tomatoes, poorly. He likes beer. @hughmanfindlay