Thrips
The evening (the one God felt I should have), is as frayed as a Salvation Army coat. Bill Gates is having a good evening. Bill Clinton is having a good evening. I got this one. Snide December rain has forced the feral cat to hide under the house where nouns and verbs dripping with adjective lurch around her shivering singularity. I would charge the night with criminal negligence, but the cat would refuse to be represented. Once full of possum playfulness, and hungry for love, (though never from humans), she is now alone with her bipolar mind, under the dipper that gives no milk. Had she been asked if that were so, she would turn her face to the wall, and deny everything. Termites march in lock step toward my timbers, and old sins have lowered their corpulent butts onto my keyboard for a long visit. Now, Like roses in a shaded bed that thrips have consumed, my metaphors have died. Written December 28th, 2001 © on Dec 27 2001 04:21 PM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 20 • 10
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"The evening (the one God felt I should have),..."