... Bernard Bucholis
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Dessication I'm growing older and the fresh flakes of dead and dying skin take on new poignance. The flesh dries long before it falls away from bone. I try to rub it warm- I think about November, think of a world without its green- it seems it will be seven seasons before spring rolls round again. More fading hair in drain, more out of step with everyone who doesn't know or care who Knute Rockney is, or gives a damn about the Gipper. Thread ripper comes to undo every seam, and I am adrift in a hollow barrel of some old rain storm. Taters And Peas Sunday once was a perfect time for the one meal meant to stick to the ribs. Where love poured on like gravy, and mother wore the nylon apron with her heart right on the pocket. Monday through Saturday we'd fend for selves- some sandwiches and soup, and more than a few thawed Swanson's, with the bickering about budgets and why he wasn't home again till ten, but Sunday brought the guests and sure as shootin there'd be peas and taters, string wrapped rump roast and a toast to all the room. A little Mogan David grandma liked the taste of; it was sweet, as the stiffened Betty Furness, fresh lipsticked, Seventh Day we rest and shine, those happy meals. I Married Because I had to do the right thing; trouble was, it wasn't at all. But twenty years were spent proving that one wrong. ..He had his eyes. Main Page
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