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Hot Chills
A head cold in December
and the sun is brilliantly high
pinned to a sky-blue sky.
He needs an image for this distressed kind of joy,
a banana shaped image
full of starch and potassium,
one with yellow prehensile lips.
He sticks a wet nose
out of the garden door.
The squirrels are confused,
small birds hop around
as if they had just won
the lottery.
He needs a significant sniff,
one that suggests
apathy and elation in one snotty sound.
Shrugging,
he retreats to a laptop to key in mixed feelings.
Google notifies, that
that page -
Cannot Not Found.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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