Yesterday’s Road Is Today’s Tuna Fish Sandwich

Milton took the left road when he came to the fork in the middle of the road.

He climbed the stairs, he’s fallen down.

No more friends and no more dinner requests.

It’s the meaning we all follow.

Paint the pictures, seal them up, heaven awaits packaged goods.

A story untold, it has begun to unfold.

Ring the bell, place your finger on the button, depress.

My grandfather was always impressed.

Margie, don’t worry, you won’t get this one either.

Forget it.

She’s skinny. She’s fat. I had a pint. I gave a pint. I ate a pint. I drank a pint.

It’s not that mint that alarms you.

She called me up after three more years.

Philadelphia.

You are right, I would like some cheese on that sandwich.

Only if the chemicals are right.

Don’t dispose of that on your face.

You know, your eyes will get stuck like that if you keep doing that.

I have hair on my hands.

I stopped getting groomed.

I’m not worried, are you?

Yes, check in time is Three O’clock in the afternoon.

It would be a lie if I told you I did not want to make love.

To you or two of you?

I started the engine.

The elderly stopped making demands in the twentieth century.

I’m not too proud of the instances.

This is the point in the poem when I tell my reader that I cannot reproduce.

Apart, I’m torn.

I tear one more drop, I move one more type, I turn one more curve.

My conversation has gone.

And I’m back in Boston, where I never did get laid.

Put me to rest, haven’t phoned him back up.

He is restricted and Miami is kissed.

She put on her bear ears, she opened her legs, she called her husband.

I forgot, what was that number again?

Margie, may I remind you, you’ll never make sense of this?

Yes, only for a little while. Cervelat. With eggs or on white bread?

Both.

It’s time to go, its five after five.

© 2007 David Greg Harth

07.09.19.17:05:57@599BwayNYC