Tag Archives: writer

tell me twice.

by Ed Williams

My car is in the shop which means I get to use Daryl’s car for the day. My first task is making sure he gets to school by 8:00 am. I literally throw together some clothes to wear. I grab an army green pair of sweats with last years living room paint all over them and a ripped waist-band. Hardly awake, I manage to grab a “Jakes Bar” tee shirt in the dark. I don’t have time to shower and barely shove a wet toothbrush down my throat. I manage to wrestle with a pair of white athletic socks I stepped on lying on the floor and locate my brown dress shoes near the front door.

As I stumble down the outside stairs I catch my reflection in the glass-doored entrance to our building of condos. My hair has been pushed into some unnatural sculpture resembling a cross between a 50’s beehive and a Billy Idol video. My glasses are somewhat askew, and at the risk of sounding politically incorrect, I look like a refugee that’s washed up on the shore of some country that’s going to turn me away. This is not good.

As we’re driving to his school, Daryl proceeds to tell me about a dream he had last night that included some obnoxious tipping for a relative who was dressed as a waiter (server) providing us with a half a glass of Coke (no alcohol.) Can this day get much worse?

As we pull up to the school Daryl sees another teacher and blurts,”Oh look! Miss Carol got her hair cut! It looks great.” At which point I slink deeper down into my seat and quip, “Please don’t introduce me to anyone this morning. I look like shit.” To which my Husband retorts, “Oh don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

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Filed under Humor, Life...

i (heart) 2 write @ nite.

when day is long

and night is longer

as sleep eludes me so,

i stare faithfully

adoringly,

at keyboard and the glow.

i sit and gaze as though in love

with thoughts and words and such,

i’ll type and curse, then type some more

my fingers with their touch.

caressing, massaging every thought

each thing that comes to mind,

edits spell as though it counts

to care about the rhyme.

i write, I feel, I sing my song

as though the soul it knows,

can I repeat what’s in my heart

to give the gift of prose.

wall clock reminds me

with each tick,

how slumber slips away

but I don’t care

how time moves on,

i’ve talked as me today.

ed.

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Filed under Poetry