Pickled Guilt
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I regret this ISN'T fiction
Leaving work for home, my job stress still fizzled.
The long drive included bratty rain drizzle
and windshield blades needing my constant fiddle.
My stress spittled as rush hour drizzle-tripled.
Some driver's fingers waved from their hand’s middle
but I thought how my nights were far from simple
with dinner and other children committals.
I must stop and tend the food list I’d scribbled
so I gave my gearshift some tension wiggles.
Once at grocer’s I saw my food list whittled,
placed bags in car without a single wrinkle,
then backed out of parking space like a missile …
… so … my stressed ear’s received a crash transmittal
while in rear mirror my eye’s saw boots wiggle,
noted they were stilettos so not nimble
yet back and forth they wriggled on legs riddled
before boots, wrinkles and white hair sunk crippled.
Without quibble I gave cops a phone jiggle,
ran to my victim and knelt by her middle.
Her eyes were open but she seemed struck simple
so I sympathized and smiled with full dimples
while thinking this could become civil dribble
ending in a court where lawyers would quibble.
Yes, stress had pressed me inside guilty’s pickle.
Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2020
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