Ideas are crumpled into wads of paper and tossed into the trash. The “it” factor, no one has. “Off with their head,” demands the Queen of Hearts. It smarts, the sting of goodbye. Then there’s the reward of hello. Like a circle chasing its tail, never to catch it, I drown. In a bowl of milk-sopped Cheerios. Hi ho! I salute a crew of a thousand and inspect their lapels and the shine of their shoes. The mosquito is on his cheek. Its sleek beak – in and out. Like the burger, but make it dirty. Third-story windows do no favors, but parties do. Cranberry vodkas are ice now, the man in the tie swinging a briefcase is late. Hold the door!
Love, me
Going On 40 