Grover’s been taking forty winks in a wooden wagon,
stuffed between Christopher Robin and Paddington Bear,
because he’s retired now. Once he swept the floor
from the arm of a young girl, where he’d become
a good companion; a real stickler for paying attention
to tall tales. There were times when he would add
his opinion, but having patience to let him finish
a sentence proved a difficult task for a child
It was, after all, as though he was speaking
his own Muppet language. Still, there were times
when the girl found it especially charming. He’d
say things, like, “yes, it is I, your furry blue taxi driver.”
And those were the moments she loved him most.
Grover understood things like being frightened
by monsters in gloomy closets after mothers
reading, Where the Wild Things Are. He was insecure
just like her so he loved the way the she needed
comfort on the nights a half-tipped moon appeared
to be an opening in the inky night, where goblins
and gargoyles might slip through ─ She’d squeeze
him extra tight and kiss his cherry nose. He was happy
he was made of blue on those days; the perfect
camouflage for blushing. And even though he’s been
overlooked for the last few decades, just last night
he heard her weeping when her husband was in the other room.
He tiptoed out of his little oak cart, crawled under
the girl’s flannel sheets, whispered her name in his best
Grover voice, and offered her a sloppy peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, following a bowl of vanilla ice-cream.
She cupped him close to her heart and in her silly Muppet
voice told him that he’d always be her very best friend.
They shared a glass of chardonnay, commiserated
on life, relationships, and feeling lonely and decided
being a puppet was hard on both of them.