Her Life Was a Cliché

Why didn’t she jump from the frying pan

into the present moment

laughing her head off

like a mosquito at a nudist colony?

Why did she get a bee in her bonnet

when she should’ve felt

like the bee’s knees?

How many therapists did it take

to fix her light bulb?

To hit the nail on the head

full of dancing angels,

to pin the tail

on her bluebird of happiness?

It should’ve been as easy as sliding

off a greased log

in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

But it took a coon’s age.

When the cows finally came to roost,

she cut bait, jumped head first

into the very thing

that was meant to be.