Saturday, a day
for fixing, or feeling guilt
for fixing nada.
A day to repair
the broken strings of harmo
dang, I whacked my ny.
Mow the lawn, rake leaves,
Vacuum downstairs then the up.
Say goodbye to nap.
Out for groceries,
list scribbled in red crayon.
Who stole the ink pen?
Jeepers, store looks packed.
Pushing, shoving near veggies.
Ho boy, no bok choy.
Please point me toward
the good tomatoes, my man.
These here are tooth proof.
Take-a-number’s jammed.
Madding cold-cut crowd as one:
“Slice my baloney!”
Can’t read your writing:
ketchup or kaopectate?
No prob, it’s all good.
Ahead, woman stops.
My nose bumps her long baguette.
We swap insurance.
Got burgers, got shrimp.
Got week-old donuts on sale.
The essence of life.
Excuse me, cant find
those talking M and Emziz.
Only mutes; what gives?
Where’s the firm tofu?
Super-firm you got, but man,
do I look super?
Checkout woman asks
Did you find everything?
No, I say. She smiles.
Ten cents off on gas,
bags in trunk, beer store beckons.
Shrimp on the barby!
Saturday, a day
not for the lame or the halt.
Well, lame, but no halt.
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.
For years I told jokes on street corners for tips, dreaming of one day owning a granite counter top. No luck, so I entered a monastery. I now do stand-up at daily prayer services. The monks' vow of silence means they can't laugh. I can't even laugh, although sometimes I sob quietly in the can. This blog is a cry for help. Send money or granite. I accept Pay Pal.
a hint of light 
Mr. Light,
Does “toward” have 2 syllables as pronounced?
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You, sir, are brilliant and at the same time a dang nitpicking copy editor. A rare combination. Congratulations. Now, if you want to say you’re moving tord something, you lose brilliant points and your way. However, moving to(ahem)ward the future is the only safe way to go. This is now gospel fact, approved by President T., ironically a man to ward against. You may restezi and you may now stand down.
Mr. Light
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