When I cough, I sputter, and when I sneeze, I spray. My pet pastime is muttering. I’m trite in what I say— these candid confessions representative of all the ways that I’m imperfect—the reasons for my fall.
Once I was a prima-donna—unique in every way— put up on a pedestal, protected from the fray. But as I aged, old father time reduced me with his cleaver. My mind grew vague and spotty. I fell victim to hay fever.
All the glories of the past vanished over time. It made a simple mortal of what was once sublime. So, fair warning to young lassies with your skin like peaches. One day you, too, will fall into Father Time’s cruel reaches.
The prompt words today are pet, cough, representative and unique.
Change not a hair of thy fair head if it be for me. I like you just as you are now from pate to chin to knee. Your shins, though, are too shinny. Your ankles too well-turned. Your heels? Shockingly callused. Consider yourself spurned.
It’s hot summer in the teeming city with tenements piled room-on-room. With narrow hallways and nonexistent grassy plots, where’s a kid to play?
Home Plate: Sweet Victory
They’re playing baseball in the street again, forcing cars to wait, restless in the intersection, ’til they see the fate of the ball the bat just cracked, rising in the air to land in someone’s flower pot or on the tenement stair. They make such a brouhaha, loud boys and louder cars, that Grandma rises up a bit to clutch at window bars.
It is a large commitment, for she can’t sit down again without some help, but still she is attracted by the din. Are car horns blaring for the inconvenience or a homer? The batter’s mad dash down the street and back a slight misnomer, for first base is the red car and second base the yellow. Cross the street and third base is the stair stoop of the fellow
who exits from his doorway, briefcase in his hand, who seems in a great hurry and yet chooses to stand to see the runner execute his skipping zigzag run homeward toward the batter’s plate that holds a sticky bun. Horns blaring as he executes his mission, ends his flight, bends over, grabs his trophy, and takes his winning bite!
My shoes go out without me. They do it all the time, and do the things I never do. They jog. They hike. They climb. When I wake up I find them strewn throughout the house— one flip flop on the counter. High heels beneath my blouse that’s flung across the table where I don’t remember putting it. I bet they’ve been out dancing—two-stepping and high-footing it.
When my cowboy boots go riding, I’d like to go along. I’m pretty sure, however, they think things would go wrong. Perhaps the horse would throw me or I’d wind up getting lost. I’m sorry that I bought them, considering the cost! Other people are the boss of all their clothes and shoes, but when my shoes and I face off, I am the one to lose.
I could take to going barefoot. This would work while at the beach. Then when all my shoes are out far beyond my reach, into the surf I’ll wade and then wander out again, trapping sand between my toes everywhere I’ve been.
So when my shoes get home at night, they’ll be completely clueless that I’ve left them out as well by venturing out shoeless!
Here’s to the letter “C” that marks what is in the middle. Somewhere between “A” and “F,” it has been known to fiddle. While “A” studies most diligently, “C” is bound to shirk. It has a certain phobia regarding too much work. It’s head and shoulders above “F” and far better than “D.” Nobody ever flunked a course by maintaining a “C.”
And yet it calls no sound its own. It’s either “K” or “S.” At birthday time, we’re given kake and winning brings suksess. We’re stopped dead in our trases. When we’re kissed, it’s a karess. Why “C” has no sound of its own, not one of us kan guess. When the sirkus komes to town, it’s happened onse or twise that the krokodiles eskape. It isn’t very nise.
Townfolks run and skurry—skared as they kan be, for katastrophes kan happen when krokodiles run free. It isn’t too konvenient, as you kan klearly see to be a kurly letter the likes of letter “C” that’s firmly in the middle, with no sound of its own. Does “C” dream of being “S” when it’s fully grown?
Though he excelled in decibels, his logic was found lacking and in the end came off as a futile sort of quacking. So when their tiff was over, all his ravings and his rantage didn’t seem to grant him a discernible advantage.