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
2/1/17
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