Day 161

Today's words:

Berry
Foundation
Wolf
River
Fog
Ambiguous

Who would have guessed that a berry
Could be the foundation
Of the whole problem? As the wolf
Stood on the bank of the river
In the fog
I looked for something less ambiguous.

It's really quite unambiguous.
Looking for a berry
In the fog
I laid the foundation
Of what became the river
That attracted the wolf.

But was it a wolf?
Or something more ambiguous?
Standing by the river
Looking for a berry
And building a foundation
In the fog.

It was the fog
That confused the wolf
And led it to the foundation.
There things become more ambiguous - 
Did the berry
Draw it to the river,

Or vice versa? Because once it was at the river
It was surrounded by fog.
It wanted a berry.
I'm pretty sure it was a wolf,
But it's still rather ambiguous,
And doesn't seem to have a sound foundation.

There are cracks in the foundation
And water from the river
Leaks in - there's nothing ambiguous
About that. Condensation from the fog
Coats the coat of the wolf
And looks like dew on the berry.

The foundation is obscured by fog
By the river while the wolf
Seeks the ambiguous berry.

Day 160

Today's words:

Sunburn
Bank
Gym
Screen
Seesaw
Basket

When I was a kid I got a sunburn
Every summer. The bank
Closed at 3 and my school didn't have a gym.
Sunscreen
Hadn't been invented. We played on a metal seesaw
And got Easter grass in a basket

Made, no doubt, of harmful substances. Today's mom would be a basket
Case if she saw any of that. But not then. I'd peel off skin after the sunburn
While riding the seesaw.
At the bank
There wasn't a screen
Between us and the teller, and gym

Was a period in school, not a place to go. Adults didn't go to the gym.
And, not to put all my eggs in one basket,
No-one wore sunscreen
Either. A sunburn
Wasn't something to be afraid of. We rolled down the hill on the bank
Of the river after playing on the seesaw.

Today the only seesaw
Is my emotions as I guilt myself into going to the gym.
Thankfully the bank
Is open late now, and I put my groceries in a basket,
So I don't use a plastic bag. I'll never get a sunburn
Because I don't leave the house without my SPF 30 sunscreen.

I remember when in church they did away with the screen
Between you and the priest at confession, and when they took the seesaw
Away from the playground. They told us to avoid sunburn
And everyone had to work out at the gym.
The only basket
I'll buy has to be locally-made and artisinal. You can take that to the bank.

I got home from the bank
And opened the window screen,
Letting the breeze in to knock the basket
Off the table. It fell like it had been on a seesaw
And the other person stood up suddenly. Time to go to the gym,
Sticking to the shade to avoid sunburn.

Rolling down the bank after playing on the seesaw,
We didn't need sunscreen and didn't go to the gym.
We picked up rocks with a basket and peeled our sunburn.

Day 159

Today's words:

Sponge
Coffin
Night
Flesh
Foundation
Madman

Makeup sponge
In hand, he bent over the coffin.
He needed to finish the makeup before night
Fell, making it harder to tell flesh
From foundation.
Only a madman

Would have chosen this job, he thought. A madman
Or someone born into it, as he was. He stroked the sponge
Across the foundation
And leaned over the coffin,
Applying the makeup to the dead flesh.
Night

Was falling. At night
He became a madman,
Ravenous for flesh.
He stood up, threw the sponge
On the floor, and closed the coffin.
He'd been brought up with a strong moral foundation

But that foundation
Had crumbled under the weight of the eternal night
Of his existence. He felt like he was imprisoned in a coffin.
He knew he was a madman
But there was nothing to be done. As a child he'd been like a sponge,
Soaking up the scent and feel of the dead flesh

All around him. That rotting flesh
Became the foundation
For his madness. He kicked the sponge
Across the floor as he went out into the night,
A madman looking to put someone else in a coffin.

His life was a trap; it felt like a coffin
And he could feel his own flesh
Rotting. So he became a madman
And the foundation
For his madness was the night.
The next morning his co-workers found the sponge

On the floor. They opened the coffin and saw that the foundation
That had been applied to the flesh the night
Before was clearly the work of a madman with a sponge.

Day 158

Today's words:

Midget
Ketchup
Corn
Midwife
Flea
Tornado

The midget
Doused his fries with ketchup
And then attacked the corn.
His mother was a midwife;
His father had owned a flea
Circus. He was born during a tornado.

They always said that the fear of the tornado
Had stressed his mother so much he became a midget.
Either that or a flea
Had bitten her, poisoning his genes. Asking for a bottle of ketchup,
The midwife
Prepared to pour it on her corn.

To put that on corn
Stirred up a tornado
Of controversy, but the midwife
Didn't care. If the midget
Could use ketchup
So could she. Next stop, the flea

Market. My last flea
Market finds were a pair of corn
On the cob holders
And a ketchup dispenser.
Despite having been born during a tornado
The midget
Didn't blame the midwife

Who'd delivered him; he knew the midwife
Had done all she could. Maybe a flea
Bite was the cause of him being a midget
And maybe not. He tried the corn
That had started the whole tornado
Because of the ketchup

Controversy.  He didn't really like ketchup
That much, but he ate it to please the midwife.
During the tornado
When he was born, the flea
Circus was destroyed, as was the corn
Field. And he was born a midget.

Is that ketchup or real blood? A flea
Should be able to tell. The midwife ate her corn,
As the tornado swirled around the midget.

Day 157

Today's words:

Binder
Stomach
Slipper
Bed
Tail
Croissant

I slammed the binder
Shut. "I can't stomach
"This," I said. I put on one slipper
And then the other and got into bed.
My dog gently wagged its tail.
In the morning I had a croissant.

A good croissant
Is hard to find in this country. I took up the binder
Again, watching as my dog's tail
Drooped. Again my stomach
Churned. I should have stayed in bed.
The dog took a slipper.

"Bring back my slipper,"
I called, "And I'll give you a bit of this croissant."
I climbed back into bed,
The binder
Left on the table. My stomach
Was starting to feel better. The dog's tail

Was wagging again. He wagged his tail
Faster as he returned with my slipper.
I rubbed his stomach
And fed him a piece of the croissant.
Maybe I should try reading the binder
In bed.

The dog jumped on the bed
And wagged his tail
In my face. I got up and went to get the binder.
The dog followed me, carrying a slipper.
Should I get another croissant?
My stomach

Grumbled. Lying on my stomach
In bed
I nibbled at the croissant
And stroked the dog's tail
As he chewed my slipper.
I opened the binder

Again, with no response from my stomach. The dog's tail
Hung off the bed, and the slipper
Fell to the ground. I finished the croissant and closed the binder.

Day 156

Today's words:

Hymn
Mite
Bingo
Bandage
Result
Pliers

This poem is a hymn
To all life, from the smallest mite
To the old ladies at the bingo
Table. To the wounded man wearing a bandage,
His wound the result
Of a mishap involving a pair of pliers.

I'll pull it out with pliers
If I have to. This hymn
Is the result
Of thinking about the mite,
The bandage,
And the bingo

Table. Bingo!
You see, use those pliers
Wrong and you'll end up with a bandage.
Let me begin the hymn
Again. It starts with a mite
And ends with a result.

The result
Of winning at bingo
Or of killing a mite
Is the same. Pliers
Or not, we're all dead in the end. No hymn
Can mask the pain, no bandage

Can soothe it. I'm ripping off that bandage
Right now. I know the immediate result
Will be more pain, but in the end it will feel like a hymn
To freedom for the newly-exposed flesh. So it's all the same: bingo,
Pliers,
Mite.

And just as the mite
Dies in the end, so the bandage
Must come off, even if pliers
Are needed to do so. The result
Wouldn't be out of place at a bingo
Game in a church basement. So sing a hymn

To the mite whose work is the result
Of placing a bandage over the eyes while playing bingo.
Using my pliers, I pull out the hymn.

Day 155

Today's words:

Poster
Baboon
Leather
Button
Scandal
Spar

The boy had a poster
Of a baboon
In his room. The animal was sitting in a leather
Chair and wearing a Clinton/Gore button.
Makes no sense to me, but I'm not going to make a scandal
Of it, or agree to spar

With those who would. To spar
Over whether a poster
Is a scandal
Or not seems a waste of time. So what if the baboon
Is wearing an old political button
And sitting in a leather

Chair?  I'll put on leather
Boxing gloves before I'll spar
With anyone. And that button
On the poster
Was obviously Photoshopped in; it was never worn by the baboon.
There's a scandal

For you, if it's a scandal
You seek, and not a leather-
Faced baboon
Or someone to spar
With.  Look closely at that poster.
You can see the button


Was added later. If it's the button
That's provoking the scandal
About the poster
I'd say forget it. Put on your leather
Gloves and spar
With the baboon.

Yes, he knows how to fight, the baboon
Does. Button
Your lip and prepare to spar
Over an imagined scandal.
Or throw down your leather
Gloves and forget about the poster.

Only a baboon would cause such a scandal
About an old political button and a leather
Chair.  Why spar? It's only a poster.

Day 154

Today's words:

Pilot
Moon
Mind
Guilt
Souvenir
Candle

The pilot
Navigated by the moon.
It was second nature. His mind,
Meanwhile, was consumed by guilt.
The souvenir
Of what he'd done weighed on him. He'd light a candle

When they landed. The candle
Flame would act as a pilot
Light to guide the souvenir
To the moon
And release the guilt
From his mind.

"I don't mind
"If you think a candle
"Will ease your guilt,"
She said to the pilot.
"But every time I look at the moon
"I'll remember what you did. It's an ugly souvenir."

And just as a souvenir
Can overtake a mind,
The moon
Can obscure a candle
Flame. The pilot
Light can be blown out by guilt.

Guilt,
Creating its own souvenir,
Can act as a pilot,
Steering the mind
Wherever it wants, past the candle,
All the way to the moon.

The moon
Light is the color of guilt,
And the candle
Flame its souvenir,
Pay it no mind;
Just pilot

Your ship in the moon-lit souvenir
Of the guilt in your mind,
And trust the candle as your pilot.

Day 153

Today's words:

Monkey
Bullet
Ravioli
Knife
Trophy
Runway

"Laugh all you want, but that monkey
"Would take a bullet
"For you." "What crap," she thought, cutting the ravioli
With a knife.
"This is no trophy-
"Winning dialogue to be sure. Best stick to runway

"Modelling. At least on the runway
"I won't have a monkey
"As a sidekick. I'll surely not get a best actress trophy
"For a line like that - 'take a bullet'
"My arse." She plunged her knife
Into the ravioli.

Eating ravioli
Wasn't good for her runway
Model's figure, she knew, but used her knife
On the pasta anyway. Better than worrying about a monkey
With a bullet.
She looked towards her trophy

Case. There was a trophy
Her mother had won for best ravioli.
But she'd fled that world like a bullet
From a gun, towards the runway.
She didn't want to wind up a performing monkey
Or a knife-

Wielding assassin, although her knife-
Throwing skills had won her another trophy
Once. "Screw them all," she thought, "Screw the monkey,
"The ravioli,
"The runway,
"And the bullet."

Which would you choose, a bullet
Or a knife?
Strolling down the runway,
Trophy
In hand, she wanted her mother's ravioli.
So, yeah, she'd take the part with the monkey

Taking a bullet. Maybe it wouldn't earn her a trophy
But she could still use her knife on the ravioli.
Goodbye, runway; hello, monkey.

Day 152

Today's words:

Traffic light
Cocktail
Knife
Doctrine
Parliament
Fairy

The traffic light
Turned red and he slammed on the brakes. He wanted a cocktail
So bad it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife.
This no drinking doctrine
Was killing him. He lit up a Parliament - 
At least he could still smoke. He wished a good fairy

Would make it OK to drink.  He wanted a visit from the Alcohol Fairy.
The traffic light
Turned green and he drew on his Parliament
Wishing it were a cocktail.
He'd like to stab whoever invented this doctrine
With a knife.

Next, he'd take a knife
To whatever evil fairy
Had cursed him to follow this doctrine.
His life was like a traffic light
Stuck on red, meaning no cocktail,
Ever. He'd like the parliament

To pass a law. The parliament
Should make drinking mandatory. You could knife
Anyone who refused you a cocktail.
Some evil fairy
Must have been controlling the traffic light - 
It turned red, stranding him outside a bar. The doctrine

Wasn't helping him now. Screw the doctrine, 
And screw this Parliament.
The traffic light
Turned green, but he made a knife-
Edge turn into the parking lot instead. Maybe a good fairy
In there would pour him a cocktail.

What's one cocktail
Anyway? He was sure the other followers of the doctrine
Wouldn't even care. He saw his fairy
There behind the bar, as he stubbed out the Parliament
And went in. His thirst was a knife
And the neon flashed traffic light

Colors. He sipped his cocktail and lit another Parliament.
He thought of cutting the doctrine out with a knife.
He smiled at the drink fairy and gazed out at the traffic light.

Day 151

Today's words:

Hail
Crown
Olive
Reward
Leaf
Necklace

All hail
The conquering hero, wearing a crown
Of olive
Vines.  His reward
For turning over a new leaf
And returning the necklace

He stole. He ripped the necklace
Off the girl's neck in the middle of a hail
Storm. Now the leaf
Of the branch on his crown
Glimmers like a reward,
Smooth as an olive.

The gold nugget was shaped like an olive
On the necklace
He stole and returned for a reward.
Now we hail
Him and place a crown
Of gold leaf

On his head. The leaf
Of the olive
Tree makes up the crown,
And the necklace
Is worn by its rightful owner after the hail
Of the reward.

What kind of a reward
Is it to have a leaf
Withstand a hail
Storm? The olive-
Shaped gold charm on the necklace
Is more valuable than the crown

We made him, a crown
As his reward
For returning the necklace.
It's gold leaf
And olive
Branch, but we hail

This crown, and bow before the leaf;
It's his reward for returning the olive-
Shaped charm and the necklace. All hail!

Day 150

Today's words:

Tie
Help
Scallop
Microphone
Ambiguous
Sunset

She fussed with my tie.
"You really need help
"With this," she chided. The edge had a scallop
On it that made it difficult. The singer crooned into the microphone,
Something about an ambiguous
Sunset.

Whatever that meant. To me a sunset
Is pretty straightforward. Now my tie
Could be said to be ambiguous -
Maybe that's why I needed help
With it. Now the microphone
Singer was saying something about a scallop

On the edge of the shore.  I think I'll enjoy a scallop
Crudo at sunset,
With the microphone
Turned off. It's a tie
Among the help
As to who is the most ambiguous,

Sexually speaking.  Certainly ambiguous
In this fashion is a scallop,
I believe - can't they change sex at will? Or not - I need help
Remembering the biology I learned in school in the sunset
Of my years as I was now. Perhaps I'll just tie
Myself to the microphone.

I'll rant into the microphone
About how ambiguous
Everything is these days. It's a tie
As to whether the lobster or the scallop
Will go into the sunset
First. Certainly we've been of no help

To either. Help
Me turn this microphone
Off. I don't want to spend this sunset
Broadcasting my thoughts, when there's an ambiguous
Scallop
To be eaten and my tie

Needs help, as do I; I'm not ambiguous
On that point. I don't need a microphone to call for a scallop
Crudo in this sunset race to a tie.

Day 149

Today's words:

Price
Vowel
Dish
Hobby
Entrance
Crash

She was watching Wheel of Fortune, as usual. The price
For a vowel
Was ridiculous. But why dish
About her hobby?
I'll make a grand entrance
Elsewhere, or I'll crash.

After the crash
The price
Of real estate went down for a while.  Still, an entrance
Into this market was tough. "I'd like to buy a vowel,"
Won't cut it, and it's a very expensive hobby.
Have you tried the new dish

At Nobu? It's a dish
That would never have existed before the crash.
It costs a fortune, but that's the hobby
Of the 1%; paying a price
For trifles that wouldn't be worth a vowel
In most places. But in order to properly make an entrance

You need to pay. The entrance
Fee alone is more than you can imagine, and the cost of a dish
Is just plain nuts. So she got her vowel,
Before the crash,
And guessed the phrase. Now it's time for The Price
Is Right. Game shows - that's her hobby.

I guess it's better than shopping at Hobby Lobby.
I'll never make an entrance
There, regardless of the price
Of their crap.  I'll take their dish
And crash
It to the ground, while screaming a vowel.

And what's the use of a vowel
If you don't have a hobby?
You can crash
Your car into the entrance,
Or bring a covered dish
To supper. A gift at any price.

So I painted over the vowel at the entrance,
So Hobby became Hubby. He's a dish
Who'll crash regardless of the price.

Day 148

Today's words:

Divorce
Skin
Colony
Cheese
Winner
Genius

"My divorce
Is final tomorrow," she said. Her skin
Was almond-colored. We were in a former French colony,
Eating cheese sandwiches. "I feel like a winner,"
She said,"Even though it doesn't take a genius

"To see I'm not. If I were a genius
"I wouldn't be getting this divorce -
"I'd really be a winner,
"And never have married at all." Her skin
Was beautiful, but I tried not to look and concentrated on my cheese
Sandwich. Life in this former colony

Was weird. Majestic buildings constructed when it was a colony
Sat next to run-down huts. Maybe a genius 
Could have improved things, but for now we just ate our cheese
And talked about divorce.
I didn't have too much skin
In this game. I was leaving soon. I wanted to come out a winner.

In a way this country hadn't been a winner
When it became independent  - no longer a colony,
But no more French money either. Most people had skin
The color of café au lait. It didn't take a genius
To tell they were mixed. But the divorce
From France meant more than just an increase in the price of cheese.

Even though it was imported from France, the cheese
Used to cost not much more than in France. The winner
Now was the producers; the divorce
Allowed them to charge higher prices, as it was no longer a colony
And therefore a free market. "Genius!"
They thought, "We'll skin

"Them alive!" Their own white skin
Was the color of some cheese.
If I were a genius
I would find a way for everyone to be a winner,
France and its former colony,
Even after the divorce.

So the color of one's skin can make one a winner
Or a loser. It's just hard cheese, the fate of this colony,
And only a genius can make a success of a divorce.

Day 147

Today's words:

Stool
Angel
Rebel
Shampoo
Guitar
Potato

The girl sat on a stool
At the bar. "I'm no angel,"
She said, "But I'm not really a rebel,
"Either. In high school I didn't shampoo
"My hair too much and I took guitar
"Lessons. Do you have any potato

"Vodka? I only ask because potato
"Vodka is gluten-free." She twirled on her stool
And played air guitar.
I had to admit - she did look like an angel,
And her hair didn't need a shampoo.
"You sure don't sound like a rebel,"

I said, "But then what do you have to rebel
"Against, apart from gluten, apparently?" I poured her a potato
Vodka. "Well, right now I'm supposed to shampoo
"The carpet at my mom's, but I don't want to get up off this stool.
"If I were an angel
"I'd be doing that, instead of day drinking and playing air guitar."

"So is that how you use those guitar
"Lessons, or do you still play? Rebel
"Or angel,
"It's a good skill to have. Another potato
Vodka?" "No thanks." She got up off the stool.
"I guess I'll go shampoo

"That rug. I've already bought the shampoo
"So I'd better use it.  I'm playing guitar
"At a club in the city tomorrow. You can sit on a stool
"And watch me play.  Then you can decide if I rebel
"Against anything else. I'll even buy you a potato
"Vodka. See? I'm an angel."

And with that the angel
Flew out of my bar, off to shampoo
Her mom's carpet. I poured myself a potato
Vodka in her honor and thought of her playing the guitar.
For a little while I'd had a pseudo-rebel
On my bar stool.

I did go see the angel play the guitar.
Her hair did need a shampoo this time; that was her rebel
Phase I guess. Afterwards we shared a potato vodka and a bar stool.

Day 146

Today's words:

Song
Exam
Microscope
Reform
Ferry
Conductor

I wrote a song
About what's it's like to take an exam
Under the microscope
Of people who don't trust you.  Like trying to reform
The life of the ferry
Conductor.

For what kind of life does this conductor
Lead? Singing his song
Back and forth on the ferry
Every day. So what if he passed the exam
For the job? They speak of reform
When all they want to do is put him under a microscope.

And under this microscope
He risks losing his job as a conductor.
That's what they call reform.
Replacing people with robots, a song
With the hum of machinery. They've a new exam
To drive the ferry.

But what about the people who take the ferry?
How do they feel about this microscope
And this new exam?
They love their conductor
And his song
And couldn't care less about reform

Unless it made his life better.  That's real reform,
According to the people who take the ferry.
They all know the song
And sing along. They don't need a microscope;
They know their conductor.
So how about that for an exam?

A new exam
Geared towards real reform,
Helping the life of the conductor
Of the ferry.
Even under a microscope
You'll still hear his song.

And in the end, the exam for the ferry
Reform wasn't a microscope,
And the conductor continued his song. 

Day 145

Today's words:

Pie
Skirt
Clay
Laugh
Nuts
Stadium

"I'll just have the pie,"
She said, smoothing her skirt.
Her eyes were dead, the color of clay.
Nonetheless, she gave a little laugh.
"They'd have to be nuts
"To think of building a stadium

"Here." But it wasn't a stadium,
It was an arena, kind of shaped like a pie,
If one had gone nuts
And worn a skirt.
You laugh, 
But it's uglier than anything, with clay-

Colored walls; more like rusted clay.
So, not a stadium;
An arena. Apparently there's a difference, but it's no laugh,
How they took peoples' homes, for a pie
Wearing a skirt.
It makes me nuts

How developers get away with crap, just nuts.
Politicians are modelling clay
To them, and anyone in a skirt
Had better run. Keep your stadium
Or arena, or whatever it is. I'll just have some pie
And try to laugh

At how horrible it all is.  It's not a laugh;
These guys really must be nuts,
With their pie
In the sky stories of blight. The clay-
Colored stadium
(Oops, arena) is what's blight. I won't skirt

The issue; we were robbed. You can skirt
It all you want but that's the truth. I won't laugh
About it, or ever set foot in your stadium
(Ahem, arena). I'd have to be nuts
To do so. No clay
Pie

For me; you can skirt the issue with those nuts,
As they laugh and play with the clay
Politicians building their stadium that looks like a pie.

Day 144

Today's words:

Mask
Wealthy
Press
Mite
Blonde
Spotlight

Wearing a mask,
As usual, the wealthy
Tycoon prepared to give a press
Conference, but it was all a mite
Too contrived, down to the blonde
On his arm in the spotlight.

Because he's always in the spotlight
He feels the need to wear a mask,
But that blonde
Doesn't care; she just wants to be with a wealthy
Man, even if he is a mite
Bizarre. Tonight she was going to press

Him to give her another gift, while the press
Followed them, shining the spotlight
On their every move. He might
Even remove his mask.
But what of he weren't wealthy?
Would he still get the blonde?

The blonde
Was a darling of the press.
Before her, the wealthy
Man had avoided the spotlight,
But now he just wears a mask.
So there's a mite

Of progress.  But just as a mite
Can bite, and cause an itch, the blonde
Could needle him to remove his mask.
The press
Would love that - to shine the full glare of the spotlight
On the face of the wealthy

Man.  Proof that even the wealthy
Can be brought down by something as insignificant as a mite.
So fix that spotlight
On the blonde
And hope she can press
Him to remove his mask.

The wealthy man and the blonde
Might talk to the press
But in the spotlight he'll always wear a mask.

Day 143

Today's words:

Cocktail
Fax
Hardware
Cuff
Lead
Legs

I set down my cocktail
And walked over to the fax
Machine; another flyer from the hardware
Store had just come in. I tugged at my shirt cuff
And sighed.  This can lead
Nowhere good.  Time to stretch my legs.

The legs
On the cocktail
Waitress were long and shapely. Was she trying to lead
Me on? The fax
Machine spewed out another ad. I rolled up the cuff
Of my trousers and prepared to bicycle to the hardware

Store. I judge a neighborhood by its hardware
Stores. Once gentrification sets in they're gone as fast as two legs
Can carry them.  Sometimes I'd really like to handcuff
These developers, but mostly I'll just have another cocktail.
I'm thinking of getting rid of my fax
Machine; all I ever get is ads.  E-mail has lead

To its obsolescence, just a Home Depot has lead
To the death of many local hardware
Stores. So no more fax.
Trying to attract the attention of the girl with the legs
To bring me another cocktail
And turning down my cuff.

I once got a silver cuff
Bracelet as a gift, but the relationship didn't lead
Anywhere and I sold it. Ah, here's a fresh cocktail -
After that I'm off to the hardware
Store, with the memory of her legs
In my mind. I'll take the fax

Flyer with me, just to ask them why they still fax.
Just an off-the-cuff
Remark might get them thinking. The owner was old, with short legs.
I know his store had once been in the lead
In the hardware
Business but that was long ago. I'll buy him a cocktail

And we can talk about fax machines and how they lead
Nowhere. I'll tug my cuff and ask about hardware,
While thinking of her legs and sipping my cocktail.

Day 142

Today's words:

Drum
Train
Fashion
Pants
Sunburn
Mustard

Day 141

Today's words:

Wool
Doughnut
Cork
Wisdom
Gears
Medicine

My sister knitted me a wool
Infinity scarf - it's basically a doughnut
You wear around your neck. It keeps the heat in, like a cork
Preserves a bottle of wine. I don't know who had the wisdom
To come up with the idea, but the gears
Do turn, and create a new medicine.

"Shut up and take your medicine,"
The school nurse would say, bandaging my scrape with cotton wool.
The gears
On the clock looked like a giant doughnut
As I counted the minutes to 3 PM and the end of forced wisdom
At school. The I'd explode, like a cork

Popping off a bottle of champagne. But cork
Is now in short supply, as it's affected by a disease. No medicine
Has yet been found and the collective wisdom
Hasn't yet produced results, beyond wool
Gathering and doughnut
Eating.  The gears

Seem to be stuck. Other gears
Are turning, looking for a substitute for cork.
I've seen all kinds of materials and shapes - even a doughnut-
Shaped one, with wax over the hole. But the search for a medicine
Goes on, even as cotton wool
Seems to be dampening the wisdom

Of the ages. And what does that wisdom
Say? What gears
Aren't stopped with cotton wool,
Or sound-dampening cork?
"If you're good and take your medicine
"I'll give you a doughnut."

Oh, for the days when a doughnut
Could solve everything, and wisdom
Was as easily obtained as a spoon of medicine.
That was before the gears
Rusted, and before the cork
Trees died. I tried to knit a wool

Doughnut scarf, but my mental gears
Aren't that flexible and the wisdom eludes me, like a cork
On a medicine bottle, covered in wool.

Day 140

Today's words:

Spotlight
Jacket
Reading
Wig
Forest
Custard

I stepped out into the spotlight
And popped the collar on my jacket.
Ready to begin the reading.
I adjusted my wig
And looked out over the forest
Of the crowd. "Custard!"

I yelled, "Custard
"Melts in the spotlight,
"So you're better off hiding in the forest
"To eat it." I was warming up and I took off my jacket
And threw down my wig
And went on with the reading.

I used to love reading
In bed, with a custard.
Now I wear a wig
In the spotlight
And a jacket
Of forest

Green.  I've been to the forest;
I loved reading
There too.  I'd take off the book jacket
So as not to smear it with custard.
I never imagined I'd wind up in the spotlight
Wearing a wig.

Why a wig?
You ask. To see the forest
From the trees, I suppose, in the glare of the spotlight.
Reading,
Eating custard,
And wiping my mouth on my jacket

Sleeve. So my jacket
Is torn and dirty and my wig
Is matted with custard.
I should just retire to the forest.
I don't need to give a reading
In the spotlight.

I found his jacket in the forest,
And, farther along, his wig. He'd been reading
Montaigne and eating custard, hiding from the spotlight.