DC Playwrights

“i must write lafcadio,”
said the squirrel,
as he leapt from his bed.

“hearn has been dead
for 100 years,”
i told him.

“by dead, do you mean
he’s in japan?”
asked the squirrel.

“no. dead,” i relied,
“as in taking a dirt nap.”

“tarnation,” shouted the squirrel,
and left to pilot the delta queen.

squirrel walked up and down
massachusetts avenue,
looking for the elusive paddlewheeler.
“damn portuguese ropes,”
he muttered.