The peanut

A true story

There's a peanut in the pocket
of a pleasant strolling Pan
An impression of importance,
an impressionable fan

He picked it from the sidewalk
Where it peaked out at the street
He rolled it in his right hand
Wondering if it were sweet.

It preferred to be a peanut
Immune to all the ills
Impugned by passing human hands
And 20 dollar bills.

But when the mouth it beckoned
A decorated cave
The proudly posing peanut
Began to human crave

Alack it was a street peanut Picked up by providence Dropped by some salacious sod And not to eat by inference.

It traveled in the pocket Of the planar strolling boy A trophy not a foodstuff A finger fiddling toy

Until one night when walking
He came upon an altar
That led into a temple
The boy he could not falter

He reached into his pocket
For an offering to the gods
And there he found the peanut
(Once the salacious sod’s)

He placed it there and passed right on A memory of Rome Perhaps a raccoon ate it then And there only remains this poem