In the winter, I was an adventurer.

A closet caper, to be sure.

My enemies only long-armed coats

and empty, white top shelves.

In the spring, I was a hunter.

A strawberry connoisseur, I was.

My traps of plastic green cage bars

ensnaring pretend, green men.

In the summer, I was a warden.

A keeper of animals, of course.

My dogs of flesh and wildlife of plastic

as my private, mild menagerie.

In the fall, I was a writer.

A scatterbrained author, no doubt.

My horde of ink-heavy lined pages

falling victim to dusty book shelves.