Why I Don’t Write Poetry

April 13th, 2007

Seasons change.
Like moods, they can be dark.
Or light.
Or kinda/sorta grayish. Like my Volvo. Which so needs to be washed. Have you seen the front grill? It’s like a damn burial ground for half of the state’s bug population. I’m surprised I’m not on the Dragonfly’s Most Wanted List for committing over 2,000 acts of aggravated insecticide. But hey, you fly, you die, Mr. Bee. Not my problem if you can’t watch where you’re going. Just try not to hit the Volvo emblem again, OK? It’s a bitch to scrape off.
Seasons change.

Winter hurts.
Wind blows harshly.
Onto my very soul.
And my feet, btw, which are always cold. Size 9 blue ice cubes. Today I seriously considered putting them in the microwave and pushing the “Defrost Hamburger” button just to thaw them out a little. But then I would have had to disinfect it and who has time for that when “The Real Housewives of Orange County” marathon is on? Not me, sisterfriend. I wonder if Slade’s feet ever get cold in the OC? No, that’d be impossible. He’s too hot.
Winter hurts.

Summer shines.
The leaves sparkle.
Sunlight plays on them like music.
And I mean music that doesn’t suck, thank you very much. Like P. Diddy. What the hell is that? “Yeah, yeah. Uh-huh, uh-huh.” That’s not music. It’s involuntary grunts set to a beat. And am I getting old or does every new band have some sort of moronic name like “Arctic Monkeys”? Back in my day, band’s names meant something. Like Wham! They were totally awesome. Which doesn’t mean I condone George Michael’s cry-for-help behavior as of late. Because I don’t. Although I’m sure somewhere Andrew Ridgeley’s getting quite the charge out of it.
Summer shines.

Wendi Aarons

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