after deserting me for a few days
my editor has a change of heart
and decides to return.
Yay! I say to myself.
Says he’s been reading my posts, and how I’ve been floundering without him.
You’ve pulled three posts in two days, he says. You’re sinking.
I know, I say, hanging my head in shame.
Look, he says. It’s no good fighting it. We’re a team. Conjoined twins if you like.
Like Laurel and Hardy? I suggest.
Same arrangement? I say.
Yes, he says. You write. I clean up the mess.
Most people think of stars when they think
Or grains of sand
But I think Adam Sandler,
All the films of his I haven’t seen
And all those I have
Even the stinkers like ‘Little Nicky’
I want to see again and again
There are so many.
Almost as many as the stars
and the guy’s still making them!
But as Jim Croce says, ‘there’s never enough time
To do the things you want to do,’
It’s just not funny.
- what’s your favourite Adam Sandler film?
- what’s one you hate?
- when you think of infinity, what comes into your mind?
If I had as many black hairs on my legs
As Roger Federer
Would I be a great tennis player?
Would I be as good as the Fed?
Do leg hairs maketh the man?
There must be a hair for every ace
He’s ever served.
If leg hairs were ants, which they look like
The Fed would be in screaming agony.
One day he’ll lose most.
Hair today, gone tomorrow.
You know the puns.
Hair’s to you, Fed.
Good luck in the Aussie Open.
Maybe I was too precious.
Maybe I should have had a thicker skin.
That way I wouldn’t have let the hurt in.
But then I wouldn’t have had that poem.
The equation holds.
Sometimes the best poems come from the deepest hurts.
But maybe I could have tried forgiveness too.
Chelsea spotted it in her comment.
‘Ha! Often that rail has a broken line’.
Maybe I had offended him. I’m not dim
But I am slow.
I should be building bridges. Not walls.
But then I would have had a different poem.
A more upbeat one.
I will try/
Better watch that mouth
Through it venom pours.
It’s like a runaway train
You got a mouth.
You got a brain?
And the bees. You don’t see the bees amongst the trumpet flowers not even when they’re braying their beauty.
The creatures have abandoned us, Seb said.
And you don’t hear the rats anymore clattering in that small space behind the fridge where you can’t get at them. Nor the mice chittering in the corner.
The world’s gone quiet, Seb said. It’s like that film.
You know. ‘A Quiet Place’.
The wasps too. And the crows in their black leather jackets ….congregating like thugs at the back door. And making a racket. I kinda miss them.
Me too, said Seb.
And that stray cat with the asymmetric face. Why, even that plaster statue of old Rumpole doesn’t pee on the cobblestones on a full moon any more..
Not even the ghosts, sighed Seb. Not even the ghosts.
A little kid climbs into an oven.
It is dark and sooty as a cave.
The kid turns on his torch.
The door shuts behind him.
Someone turns up the heat.
His brow perspires, his eyes begin to bulge,
His heart to race.
The kid scrambles to find an opening, bangs on the glass.
The door slowly opens.
The kid staggers out.
There, says a stern, kindly voice. How was it?
Life isn’t plain sailing. Just so you know.
Huh, who was that? The kid asks.
No one answers.
* courtesy of ‘The Drabble’ on which it has just appeared