Reexamining the mere three inches of space between the microwave and the edge of the counter, I began to wonder how on earth the salad tray had balanced seemingly fine in the first place.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMLXIX)


There's nothing like the salad which sans bail
Was scraped off of the filthy floor cuz sense
Forebore to toss my lunch and lo, defense
Was elsewhere when I rose to check in frail
Excuse the thermostat, cuz freezing'd fail
To please me, and my lunch went SPLAT.  Ah, whence?
But gather all by hand and don't starve hence.
If Monday thought of trouble, snow in tour
And icy rain meant slippry, driving too
A challenge mair than wont, wherefore bestir
More by the tossing of my lunch?  Where to?
Oh LORD, do be Thou magnified. Tis poor
To thus complain. Bring us with joy to You.

06Jan25a