Better Skip Breakfast

Sweet morning sunshine -- Damn you how I despise this labor that lies ahead. The cousin of Grizzly Adams’ patiently waits with the ancient white pickup truck he ran me over with while I slept. Off we go with the toolbox dancing in the bed and it’s a band of pots and pans, the opening act for our weapons of mass construction. Murph says he’s a team player, although I don’t recall a sport consisted of getting wasted and having shameful sex. He grumbles and curses about the day ahead hung-over with his perfume from the distillery and gum he must’ve marinated in an ashtray. We better do some stretching before the circus begins— watch me as I carry an elephant up the twenty year old ladder. From two stories above I witness the war forming between old rusty nails and the tiny, soft green blades that stand no match. The ground has become a grave of tetanus but the old umbrellas we toss down from the house cover up the battlefield. (To Be Continued)...