The Vacuumer swallowed my Dollar.

One gulp and the “Loonie” was gone.

Sucked into the things dirty stomach,

where unspeakable items belong.

It rattled its way up the flex hose;

the Gannet like neck of my foe

and pinged as fell in the bucket,

to tell me where lost Loonies go.

 

I was cleaning the car when this happened.

Something I do now and then;

when pressured by those of my family,

who never seem to be men.

I’d put a coin into the monster.

Air roared up it’s gullety bore,

as I wrestled the snake like sucker

to garner the dirt from the floor.

 

I was trying to lean further over,

to clean where one puts filthy feet.

When my last Loonie lost its moorings

to escape me under the seat.

I’ll get it when I’m in the back there;

I thought as I vacuumed the mat.

Then promptly forgot all about it.

Thus was the sad ending of that.

 

I whistled in tune with the suction.

A sort of baritone flush;

when a coin glinted under the front seat.

Then the Loonie was gone in a rush.

Oh sad loss of golden like dollar.

Loonies anguished cry echoed the dawn.

To a dusty tomb in a vacuum,

one hell of a place to be drawn.

David Garlick, Victoria, September, 1994