There’s a damn popping noise

going on upstairs.

I’ve tried to find the source,

but it never cooperates,

it only laughs,

holding its sides,

with tears rolling down its cheeks,

suppressing the howls,

rolling ever so silently over the floor,

under the bed,

or in the closet,

or the attic,

until I give up the hunt,

and go back to my chair,

and pick up my book,

when it POPS again,

whooping without a sound,

gasping for air,

regaling at its own cleverness and wit,

almost dying,

but not quite.

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