Friday, February 03, 2017

Thirteenth Poem (Kiss my booboo and make it all better.)

Time to make a glass of iced tea with lots of sugar to jolt my system into overdrive.
Time to call your bluff and make you see even rose tinted glasses don’t work one hundred percent of the time.
I’ll never be sure if I was attracted to her because of how good she looked in a plaid skirt or because her chosen profession was librarian which always leaves me hot and endlessly bothered.

I will never forget when she showed me her tummy. Even if it were unintentional it’s still the only skin I’ve seen since before Redford and Newman played to an inside strait.
We must make amends before a hard rain falls and we’re washed away in the crocodile tears of a swamp that never was actually going to be drained.
I know it’s 5:01 AM, but I am still hungry so I am going to eat an Italian sausage and pray the heartburn does not pay me a visit while I’m sleeping the sleep of the dead.

I know this poem is not done yet, but I must take a piss.
Bun is in the oven and the tea is steeping.
Preparing the meal is half the battle even and especially when you’re a pacifist and don’t plan on hunting for your own food or lackadaisical amusement.

The Italian sausage hit the spot as did the iced tea. Now I am off to bed and will continue watching Sherlock tomorrow when I’ve risen from the dead like Lazarus or the Easter Bunny.
Funny how fairy tales work. They began as grim affairs and then soon became cash cows.
I haven’t been to the library in ages. I wonder if she’d allow me to peruse her card catalog and if she’d talk dirty to me even though we’re supposed to be quiet like living dolls or cadaver dogs once they’ve picked up the scent.

Charles Cicirella

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