Yellow armadillos snoozing,
naptime at the zoo.
These guys are usually playing
But today there's something new:
A double-decker armadillo,
one atop the other!
I wonder how they choose
who’s going to snooze upon its brother.
Do they chat about it nicely?
Do they argue? Flip a dime?
Do they just have an agreement?
Is it different every time?
I have given it a lot of thought
and this is what I thunk:
If you’re the first to fall asleep,
you’ll get the bottom bunk!
About this poem: My kids and I visit the zoo so often we've named many of the animals. These little yellow armadillos we call Malcolm and Griffin, after my boys. They're usually digging in the sand or chasing each other playfully (I think....). Not today. "Armadillo" is an easy rhyme with "pillow," but there were no pillows in sight today--just an armadillo bunk bed!
Uncle Bobby says I hatched from an
egg with polka dots.
He says my brother hatched from one with
pink and purple spots.
He says our mother sat on us
for forty-seven weeks
before we pecked ourselves
out of our shells
with pointy yellow beaks.
Uncle Bobby says the webs
between our toes dissolved
and then our stubby wings fell out
before our spindly arms evolved.
I think I don’t believe him.
But (just between you and me)?
There’s something weird perched somewhere
up there in our family tree.
About this poem: When my boys were about three and four, the oldest asked if he'd come from an egg. I said yes, and continued with what I thought was a brilliantly simple yet accurate response. My listeners glazed over, then dismissed it as nonsense. So the next time he asked, I said, yes, they'd hatched from eggs alright—Malcolm's had a purple shell and Griffin’s was green. That was much more satisfying for all parties. There is a time and a place for lying, and it is in the home when you have small children. (That of course is a lie!)
Writing this poem, I thought about how everyone feels like their family is a little bit (or a lot bit) strange and crazy. Uncle Bobby (who in real life is a family friend and bears no resemblance whatsoever to the adult in this picture) became the teller of the tall (or not so tall???) tale.
Ms. Betsy's oldest surviving poem is one she wrote in the third grade. "Down in the Sewer" didn't make her popular, but it made a small group of loyal fans very cheerful. Some of the latest poems she's written, "Six Poems of the Galapagos," will appear in Cricket Magazine in the summer of 2020. She hopes they'll reach a wider audience than her first poem did, and make more people cheerful...and possibly provoke some thoughts, as well.