The Dot, The Spot

The Dot, The Spot

It started with a dot, a nothing thought,

on Tuesday’s sock, a witches plot

it blinked, it stank, it maybe spoke,

it wore a tiny velvet cloak

The spot, it spread, but not like ink,

more like a rumor or a wink

it found the fridge, the cat, my knee

and hummed a hymn in F-sharp B

The doctor said, “It’s likely fine,”

the priest just poured a glass of wine

the neighbour wept, then tapped his nose,

“It’s how the garden tulip grows.”

I named it Dave, it purred and grew

it whistled jazz and ate my shoe

it joined a choir, bought a hat

and argued once with my flat mat

By Thursday noon, it ran for mayor

“Vote Spot Not Dot” on every flyer.

The moon approved, the stars aligned

and I was fined for being blind

The dot, the spot, the creeping friend

who giggled softly at the end

It wasn’t ink or pox or plot,

just something real the world forgot.

And if you think this poem’s odd

Pass it by, for I the poet am a loopy sod

To poetise a blooming spot of all things

showa I am not firing on all strings.