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Alofa Bread makes a new yard. |
Alofa Bread sliced through the kitchen like toast ousted from toaster slots and stood by the back door, hands on hips, eyes wide, determination dripping like olive oil from a pan. “I am tired,” Alofa lowed, “I can no longer keep my lawn--I give up, for I am as stale as an undertaker’s breath.” Alofa stomped her heel; “My yard is funky railroad, interment of old Kentucky grass, an easement for the Eliminators (those Hell’s Angels wannabes), a flat verdant, no longer crisp with snap, but bent like sprain and limp like desiccated philodendron." Alofa rolled her eyes, then beamed like butter on corn. “Now I decide, for I am Bread, and lo, this millstone that is yard will now be nil, and I declare it will be stone; I’ll bury grass forever more, and let the Lawn-Boy and weed-whacker idle like a valley fog.” Resolved, Alofa left for Lowe’s... ...and there Alofa spotted stone bagged high on racks south of wide rakes and rows of bulbs and electrical. So, I am Bread yet I need stone, Alofa thought as she strode forth with shopping cart (that red- wheeled help), as damaged wheel made flop each turn and shook a lot--Alofa felt. Alofa hefted stone of lime, thick plastic wrapped, white dust a smear on some of Bread, then huffed and strained like coil springs compressed by logs. But mass in cart, and countenance a win like mate in chess, she wheeled with wobble to the end where checkout light assigned her path, and Alofa swiped Discover in slot, (atilt with corded pen there placed), tapped cash back no, then signed her name. Backbreaking bags of stone once sought, Bread balanced each upon the Honda’s robust edge, then dragged them to the yard and cooed as winds from lake blew forth. “Oh stone, I love you! Goodbye old friend, farewell to green, the journey-work of stars. Yet stone is journey-work as well; all atoms ancient, an authorship of cosmic quill." Alofa lounged in her lanai, sipped lemonade and looked with pride at her new yard. 40 Lines Writer's Cramp 3-11-18 |
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