2014 #310

then Glossary sat up
or tried to sit up but Reality
Patrol or no Reality Patrol
hovering in a helicopter
Glossary was yet a wounded
reference and here the luscious
kitchen wench rushed to Glossary’s
bedside and settled on the mattress

where Glossary had strength for a scoot
though a wince insisted on screwing
Glossary’s cover and the cottage wench
brandishing her buxom bosom her peasant
blouse glorified laid her hand tenderly
on her patient while turning to History
who’d now taken shape though too hazy
a shape to find a handy simile

much less deftly use the handy simile
on such short notice and said, “if you don’t mind
diversifying for a bit you could run
to the basin in the kitchen and bring me
warm water and a damp cloth or a cloth
I can wring after dipping it in the basin’s
warm water, some combination like that
so I may begin my nursing chores.”

“Chores! Nursing chores! My God! Have you forgotten
already your line about what we all hate
and have you not heard the megaphone above us?
We need more than a warm cloth. We need a tunnel.
Have you a secret tunnel beneath your cottage?”
“You’ve some nerve – I know you’ve been around
a long time but you do have some nerve,
trying to pry as you pry into my private

properties. But yes. A secret – I do not care
for calling it a tunnel – a secret passageway
happens to exist beneath… my cottage.”
“May I assume it is over there
where I see that thatched corner is?”
“You really do not endear yourself
very well. I can see why you’ve had problems
over the years. I recall now why I never

cared much for History and you did
appear in this cottage without ringing
or knocking. Rather rude. More than rather rude.
But yes where the thatch is – I will open it
while you heft our patient and we will all – though
if you detected my secret thatch I don’t see
how they who hover will not detect it and….
oh can’t you delete the Reality Patrol?”


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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