Poetry Corner

I was motivated to write this poem about my experience at WAIST (see previous blog if you are unfamiliar) when I remembered a poem that my talented brother, Nate Adams, wrote in probably third grade. He wrote a hilarious ballad called, "My legs are fake" and also a poem about the contents of a refrigerator. I think it ended with something like this, "The wilted head of lettuce / As old as a geezer / Made me afraid / to open the freezer"

My prose doesn't nearly do justice to the original inspiration, but please enjoy.

Also, you won't really understand the poem unless you see a picture of the trophy we won at WAIST. Please see it below.





We'd sweated and we'd toiled.
We'd worked and schemed and trained.
Our arms and backs were aching
Our muscles we had strained

In our final glorious triumph
We raised our trophy high
Our little hunch backed goblin
Was lifted way up towards the sky

I love that little guy
Despite his Benjamin Button look
The three upon his back
Indicated the place that we had took

So I tied him to my back
As only Gambian mothers can
Through the urban streets of Dakar
I transported my wee man

And so I returned
To a champion's fanfare
I passed around our little beast
This victory I would share

Everyone admired the prize
A pleasant smile masking their shock
Even if it's an ugly baby
You grin and tell the mother it's not

My WAIST team I trusted
To take care of the prize
And so as I left for the party
I know it was under watchful eyes

Later, after too little sleep
And far too many beers
We boarded our bus to discover
Our trophy was not here!

Mother's instinct set in
And I scrambled off the bus
Horrible scenes filled my mind
Was he kidnapped? Broken? Crushed?

I searched the entire hostel
From ceiling to the floor
And called for reinforcements
To help me search a little more

The search was unsuccessful
So we tearfully drove away
After questioning each individual
Of where they'd seen him that day

Seven hours and two countries,
One boat and a border later
A clueless young man finally spoke up
And said, "Didya check the refrigerator?"

My schock was immense
My horror was real
Imagining our gremlin
Locked in a box of freon and steel

You may ponder and ask yourself
Why didn't he speak up before?
Was he deaf? Was he sleeping?
Was this Frenchman feeling poor?

So in the not so distant future
When your cherished child is lost
Just check your household fridge
And set your kid out to defrost.