the box on the shelf
with the black-penned Possibility
has a lid that won’t close
and never lie flat.
in it is the house i’d build
and fill with his favourite things.
for he hasn’t seen the butter-flour apron
beneath the ink of my liberal jeans,
but there I’ll be;
a smile in his kitchen
and one for when he’d wake,
between my work with words
and the song of sunrise
sweeping outside the front door.
I’ve been your friend since you puked up on me in grade school, I can tell you this. You buddy, make roadkill look attractive.
-Sheesh, I know i’m not the best looking guy around…
Well, thank God you don’t harbour any of those delusions.
-But she only wants to marry me because of the money.
A woman’s gotta love you for something. Be grateful.
Maybe it was the way her thumb slid evenly over the business edge of the butterknife, or the manner in which her mouth smirked up manically at the left towards the mole on her cheek. Either way, Bradley knew, that in five short seconds, his cajones would join his appendix in a doggy bag.