Little on the Lamb

a sonnet by Dan Standing

My feet barely make prints in the wet sand,
Gulls spy on me in the early sunlight,
Lying out I’d get cooked instead of tanned,
I get close, feathers fly, cast out in flight.

My request had been simple, in theorem.
Said, “More petite would be my preference.”
Trustingly drank that foul tasting serum.
Five or six inches now – what’s the diff’rence?

Put in a bird cage, transported by bike,
His hood’s drawstrings swung right into my reach.
A quick tug; he was surprised by my strike.
Bicycle flipped, cage broke open on beach.

Now I am desperately looking for help,
In a wet dress quickly fashioned from kelp.