I’ve got shaving cream stuck on my
earlobe and a strand of dental floss
clinging to my right shoe. That faint
smell of bacon comes from my briefcase,
where I absent-mindedly stashed what
I was supposed to give the dog when the
phone rang with a reminder of the doctor’s
appointment which I seem to have
forgotten in my confusion following the
unfortunate incident with the street sweeper
and the crocodile formation of
pre-schoolers crossing the divided highway.
CD seven of my new box set from the
library was playing at the time, something
about accepting life as it comes, so I
didn’t lay on the horn and instead smiled
at the gigantic nun waving her hands in the
central reservation. The word “wimple”
got stuck in my mind and I spent the rest of my
drive thinking about rhymes for it, of which
there are precious few, which may partly
explain the paucity of decent nun poetry,
and also attempting to undress her in my
imagination, only to be thwarted at every turn
by a gleaming steel under-habit with a
big sign saying “For God’s sake, keep out!”
Felt a little better by the time I got to work,
especially when the receptionist winked
at me, but then I couldn’t stop imagining her
as a nun. Weird. Maybe if I’d gone to
Catholic school this wouldn’t be a problem,
which actually might just be the best reason
I have heard so far for supporting school vouchers.
I wonder if Jesus was ever late for work,
probably not while carrying bacon, and if Mary
Magdalene ever let him look under her robe.
A bit of stream-of-consciousness insanity to share with friends at the fabulous dVerse Poets Pub.
Penguin Poems 