"Ah yes, a missive, an epistle…"
said to himself in his best internal WC Fields voice,
then added
"Step back son, you bother me"
to his mental mutter.

The dog was practicing his newfound talent,
hacking and making it sound like he was really going to throw up this time.
The faux-garbagemen were on the weekly recycle strut down the street,
disturbing the quiet,
but adding entertainment to the Wait for the Young Wife.

Today it's an 8:17 return,
herd the kids towards the house,
ignoring the ex-Errol Flynn-flam adventurer across the street
staring at her tight shorts when she bends
picking up the paper and the end of the driveway
(the closest distance between the Faithful Watcher and the thong/shorts clad bum.)
"Ain't old age great?"

Alternating
between the mega-calorie stay alive drink,
and pressing the .45 muzzle against his right eyelid,
he types.

Blues shouldn't be on the radio this early in the morning.
Needs Whiskey.
Whiskey needs Pussy.
Pussy sinks ships.
Loose Pussy sinks Big Ships.
Holy Ship,
maybe she'll come back out and bend over again.

The last tenant was an aerobics freak.
Bent over all over the shrubs in the front yard.
He fucked her,
at the cost of her husband only getting half hard,
the cost of having a dinky winky.
"Was in the presence of greatness, he was…"
WC was back.
Sunk by Pussy.

Willy Nelson shouldn't sing the Blues.
Especially this hour.
His pure powertool voice hurts too much.
Makes me want to mourn the loss of cowgirl pussy,
but it costs more than oats or powertools,
and he's been beat by Hoss too many times.
Young times.
Young Pussy times.
Sunk by Hoss.

Spring's here
and there's a red tinged highway lurking in the back of the imagination,
an airline flight over too much water,
people that smell funny,
Pussy that smells funny.
If this were 1930 it would be simple.
Tramp Steamer.
Gone.
Sayonara.
Didi mau, mofuk.

But…

Still paying for Pussy.
In arrears.
Still tasting the salty crystals in my mustache,
but in arrears.
In her ears.
Have to think too much for bank robberies these days…
too much effort, not enough Pussy.
Cost too much.

What are these strings that hold us to a closet?
Why can't we close the door one final time on that junk storage
(and Pussy),
crammed with stuff we never wanted in the first place?

"Go tell your mother she wants you, boy" (WC)

A wry Grin.
Gets him out of most things.
Back to the .45,
just to rest,
just to feel the coolness and weight.
"Don't let the bastards smell your fear."

Or

One .45 equals 1 blowjob,
with a hint of danger thrown in.
Disgusting.
Pussy again.

Wouldn't we be just simpering old lechers,
feeding off the young and dumb?
"Ah yes."

I hear bank robbery's even more difficult in Europe…

Just My Magination thumps
background
on the best radio a hunnerd dollars can buy,
the real garbagemen herald themselves,
the crash symphony down the block.
The Young Wife's in for the morning,
4 more housenummers and the quiet'll be back.

Bedtime.
No Pussy.
Charge account for later tonight,
magnetic strip energized
electric blue pill times two.
Too early for Blues.
"Ain't old age great?"

12/28/2005

Posted on 12/28/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers