Fall evenings fall so soon;
the windows closed by noon, shut tight;
the curtains drawn lest light
too weak invades the brightly lit
and cheerful space. Flame flits
in hearth to warm, uplift the heart,
with smell of soup, jam tarts,
fresh bread, all a la carte fireside
dinner. Yet TV guides
demand the day’s world-wide newscast.
A bomb kills over there,
eight soldiers die somewhere, and far
away fancy film stars
rant, silken voices jarred with beeps.
A drug-drugged druggy weeps;
some politicians speak about
corruption. Stamps and shouts
and blood and hurts and pouts invade
the family room. Love fades.
Fall evenings fall. They’re made for guilt.
Melissa had a pet python. It was huge. Of course, she was unmarried. The snake kept all men at a distance.
At night Melissa would snuggle up in bed with the pet python wrapped around her. On a warm night the snake would sleep on the floor.
“It curls around me for warmth,” said Melissa. “It’s not going to swallow me!”
Melissa pooh-poohed the idea that it could devour her. “Pooh-pooh,” said Melissa.
“It will kill you one day,” warned Melissa’s mother.
“Pooh-pooh,” said Melissa.
One night Melissa got up in the dark to go the bathroom. She tripped on the python curled up asleep in the corridor. She broke her neck. In the morning there wasn’t much to clean up. Just a pair of slippers.