Short Story: Doing the Hop, Hop, Hop

by Russ Hall

Forty-seven pogo sticks

Showed up by error at the nursing home.

Retired duffs and greying dames

Cast off their walkers; one

Rose up from a steel wheelchair.

“Oh, brittle bones, we do not care.”

They mounted and began to hop,

Up and down, up and down

In a growing group, a bold parade,

Like kangaroos, they formed and

Headed up the road, while

Attending aides gave chase,

Were left behind the hopping mob

Of Q-tip hairdos bobbing in the breeze,

As they hopped and hopped their way

Toward the brightest ever setting sun.