slept and soaked
the sabbath Saturday away.
the body, achey breaky,
cranked and croaked,
slewed by a slew of common miscreants.
one, a stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
wanting to be born, feet first,
coming out the side of my chest,
instead of my ******
so,
promised poems and bills to pay,
put aside for a more poetic bill paying day.
awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
my nostrils do attend,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the french shores of my subconscious.
I love three things French:
the elegance of their language grande,
their frenchified fries and frenchified toast.
was fed some french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
thus drugged,
went back to bed again.
as I drifted off for the third time today,
heard the woman dramatic say:
"must have, must have,"
two words that I from my past,
consider a curse,
a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife,
her way of saying I didn't measure up.
must have
paprika
to roast your chicken
for Sunday dinner.
relieved beyond measure,
as I to dreamless sleep dispatched,
vague recall a poem forming about the
spices in my life.