T is for Timmy, his mouth stuffed with socks

T is for Timmy, his mouth stuffed with socks
04/23/2008 - National Poetry Month post #26, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six

Each Saturday morning with parents asleep,
down to the TV room Timmy would creep,
so quietly careful without one small peep
with chocolate puff sugar bombs poured in a heap.

He laughed at Bullwinkle and all of his tricks
and Wile E. Coyote blasting dynamite sticks
and Josie and all of her pussycat chicks
with Yogi and Boo Boo thrown into the mix.

Tom chasing Jerry, Fudd and Smurfette,
Musky and Deputy Dawg on the set,
and Tweety evading Sylvester's quick net
and Johnny Quest flying his special Quest Jet.

He tuned in Fat Albert when nothing was on
and loved Savoire Faire up in the Yukon
and Polly Purebred he had a crush on
and even liked Lucky Charms' wee leprechaun.

Tim watched every show from five until noon
and lamented that it was all over too soon,
and his mom said that he would become a buffoon
but still he wished his life was a cartoon.

But he watched and he slurped and he wiped at his nose
and transitioned from cartoons to afternoon shows
and his eyes, they stopped blinking, and his mind simply froze
and his munchies ran out so he nibbled his toes.

He drooled, catatonic, at the idiot box
while he turned dumber than a box full of rocks,
and he even went numb to electronic shocks,
and he sucked on his toes and he choked on his socks.

It took them four days to realize that he'd died
with his feet in his mouth and his eyes open wide
on the floor flapped some leaves of an old TV Guide,
with his empty cereal box at his side.

One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.