9 december

what i meant to say is tired how the fired oven was hotter than the cantelope pickle how i tickled the fancy of the fantasy league but the uninspired hiring manager couldn't put his boots on fast enough and so i bluffed that listener and tottled on home to roam those plains again - the standard answer bears up like a loving cup of regret (you bet, and other refrains) remaining to be seen, and other queens of the stony stare while up the steps comes another regret (the egret having elapsed the timespan of availability due to a proclivity for poor scheduling): we're hedging our bets again and the wet end's up the park bench! the wrench in that one is surely to be damaged at this rate and there's a gate that ought to be closed but i am indisposed to mention much and i would rather not have a gentle touch as i'm walking away i'd rather hear that the play's the thing and i am just played out (just a stage, you know, and i am not hanging anything on the wall - i am not ready yet to take that fall when the spring comes - when the summer runs over into whatever else the other one will be - we'll call it winter, but we'll whisper, lest the weather catch the word)