"skillet" poems
_~a jump-rope chant~_
Black silk handkerchief,
what ya’ gonna’ hide?
A pox that knocks on the church’s side.
Preacher won’t preach where my daddy died.
Angel forgot which soul to guide.
Both arms wrapped in moccasin skin,
open the gate and let her in!
Snake-bone hag with watery eyes,
count to ten when the baby cries.
One for the moon,
and two for sin,
three for the teeth with the rusted grin.
Four for the girl with the copper cough,
dancin' in the attic with the light turned off.
Five, six,
skillet ticks.
Seven, eight,
shut the gate!
Nine, ten, count again--
bathe him slow and cool the skin.
held him close till the fever broke;
air curled white from pinewood smoke.
Chewed the haw and bit the sage,
wrapped his bottle in a bible page.
Ghost stood watch on the porch out back,
shadow thin and eyes coal-black.
Sayin', "I’m fine, don’t mind the cold,"
"died last spring but ain’t been told."
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter
The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity
Blistered on skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
If wishes were fishes,
I'd have a whole bunch.
Swimming in fishbowls,
Awaiting their lunch.
If wishes were french fries,
I'd have a caboodle.
Frying in the skillet,
To feed to my poodle.
If wishes were colors,
I'd have a rainbow.
Coloring the world,
In hues of magenta and mango.
If wishes were flowers,
I'd have a garden full.
Showing their pretty faces,
And smelling of taffy pull.
If wishes were mine,
I'd hand out a dozen.
To every girl and boy,
To each uncle and cousin.
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Leave if You Can II
I live in the house of poetry.
I ascend her stairs slowly
and leap back down.
I sit in the chair of poetry,
sleep in her bed, eat from her plate.
Poetry has windows
through which mornings and afternoons
fall, and how well she suspends a teardrop
how well she blows until I tumble / With this
I mean to say that
one basket brings
both wounds and bandages.
I love poetry so much that sometimes I think
I don’t love her / She looks at me,
inclines her head and keeps knitting
poetry.
As always, I’ll be the bigger person.
But how to say it / How to tell her
I want to leave / honestly I want to
fry my asparagus…
I see her coming near
with her bottle of oil
and crazed skillet.
I see her,
her little bundle of asparagus
slipping out her sleeve.
Ah her freshness / her chaotic glint
and the way she approaches with relentless meter.
I surrender / I surrender always because I live
in the house of poetry / because I ascend
the stairs of poetry
and also because
I come back down.
— Translated by Lisa Allen Ortiz & Sara Daniele Rivera
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:02 AM UTC
A title, from the "Best of the Alternative Press"
After reading
I realize I'm not a woman after all
She can talk about the cruel things
men do to women
**** and ******
Then discuss draperies
in the next breath
how to organize your closet
Female Genital Mutilation in Africa
and her favorite appliance:
a Panini maker
I am supposed to rush into my kitchen
to make sure I have the same brand
"She understands how much women care about their houses"
I look around
I am happy here but
A new cake of soap doesn't send a thrill through my body
A fresh towel doesn't make me ******
I could make a grilled cheese sandwich
The way my ancestors, male and female have done
In a skillet with bread and cheese
If I squish it it, it becomes Panini
I check the mirror
I'm naked, and I see
I am a woman
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
Awake still...sipping coffee this
unholy hour...i wonder how buried
moments can easily gatecrash into
my sober flow of thoughts, flipping
like pages of a book, blown by a
strong wind...i could smell dried rose
petals pressed between the pages.
i could also smell mottled pages
holding mottled memories...they
should have crumbled, be forgot,
but, bravely, they flash back, clear
as the rustling of bamboo leaves
right outside my window.....ahh,
the devil never sleeps...he creates
a stir at the unholiest of hours,
drops it like a bomb, disturbing
my calm universe;
suddenly, it's 4:00 am
i blink a few times to dismiss what
should be forgot.....then, suddenly,
it's 5:00 am.....more coffee.
the eyes watching bubbles from
curling, crisping bacon, strayed,
far from the skillet, but, focused
back, before the pieces got burned.
6:00 am now...breakfast time
for online class attendees.
in my universe, mornings are a
mix of sniffs...of coffee, fried eggs,
fried bacon, sausages, fragrant
gardenia blooms...not to forget
whiffs of good and bad memories.
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Good morning everyone!
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 13, 2021
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 1:14 AM UTC
I want to fall with a Poetress
Not a girl but a woman that can match my intellect.
She can cook and clean but is far from domesticated.
Need a ghetto queen like Latifah
I'm from the hood baby I can handle a skillet.
Let's split it
You cook the rice I make the chicken
A woman that understands it all from politics to religion
She fights for her rights
And some nights she doesn't want to lay she wants to ride
Never ask for nothing but is willing to die
Living for the moment
Like of our live is being directed by Nick Cassavetes
A Poetress I promise to keep smiling
Like a woody Allen movie
And if I sell my soul
I'll be Adam and she Lilith
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
That argues with me metaphorically
Poetic in her actions
When she threatens to leave me
A goddess with words and she let's me hear it
A woman I can open up like a book
And let's me eat in her living room
One that can bear baby Jesus and the anti Christ if God decides
My match
My one on one
Wether I have a bible or a ski mask
Much more than superficial beauty
But if I had to choose
She'll be Patron white with a Henny ***
Don Pergion for a mouth,
she speaks class
1880 aged wine for her mind
Her thoughts are dined
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
Who understand cutlery
But loves bacon and burger beef
A goddess of poetry
Would be the only one right for me
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
And the search begins
your majesty.....
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I was sitting at the computer
trying to think of a way
to describe a woman's
*** as anything other
than a woman's ***
and there were
marlboro black
cigarettes on my
creaking desk
and I had a fifth
of whiskey on the
windowsill and
I rubbed my forehead
and thought of fruits--
apples and oranges--
no, no that's overdone
and I thought of animals--
elephants and horses--
but, again, no, I'd
come across as one of
those sick ******** that
go to the zoo in
stained trench coats
and rub themselves against
the chain link
and Eve would walk in
beautiful girl with short
hair and a sharp mind
she'd ask what I was
writing about and
I'd say women
but the women were
never her, she pointed out
and I'd say I don't want to
jinx this, what we have,
you know? and she'd say okay,
okay
I'd get lit up every evening and
I'd text other women
I'd tell them about the shapes
of their ***** and the sizes
of their brains and they'd
usually say uh huh yeah
but I was fishing, always
fishing for that compliment
that sliver of hope, that
unsatisfied wife
when you're trying to be
Bukowski you'll throw
yourself under the bus
again
and
again
for what?
a story, trivial and base,
and that good woman,
that best woman, that Eve,
one day while making breakfast
she'll say to the eggs in the skillet
I can't take this **** anymore
and you'll say so don't
and she'll say fine
and she'll walk out the front door
wearing your t-shirt
you'll feel free for a week
and alone for two years.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
I lie here paralytic
Inside this soul
Screaming for you 'til my throat is numb
I wanna break out I need a way out
I don't believe that it's gotta be this way
The worst is the waiting
In this womb I'm suffocating
Feel your presence filling up my lungs with oxygen
I take you in
I've died
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Right now [X2]
I lie here lifeless
In this cocoon
Shedding my skin cause
I'm ready to
I wanna break out
I found a way out
I don't believe that it's gotta be this way
The worst is the waiting
In this womb I'm suffocating
Feel your presence filling up my lungs with oxygen
I take you in
I've died
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I Wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
(I come alive somehow)
Tell me when I'm gonna live again
Tell me when I'm gonna breathe you in
Tell me when I'm gonna feel inside
Tell me when I'm gonna feel alive
Tell me when I'm gonna live again
Tell me when this fear will end
Tell me when I'm gonna feel inside
Tell me when I'll feel alive
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
(I come alive somehow)
Right now
I come alive somehow
Right now
I come alive somehow
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
Now he knows.
She introduced his necklace to inferno.
No shame, she set aflame
Flowers from prom night.
Sifted their sweet ashes into a jar
Maybe even prayed the ashes or the glass they came in would leave a scar
Tied it with a pretty ribbon
(maybe just in metaphor)
Grinned while she envisioned
His defeat from afar
(From here I can hear the smile cross her lips.)
And all this time she said she’s sleep
With the teddybear she gave my name
(Lay awake and wish it was me…please…)
(I often do the same)
Still has the jacket named skillet hanging in her closet
(She could wear it if she’s really cold…)
(She hasn’t lied or lost it)
She still has my purple heart
(She has all of them I’m told)
This...this gives me hope I'm scared to hold.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Grandma made plantain fu-fu
On the fire hearth.
A big iron skillet of hot coconut oil.
Her hands were gnarled and knobby. But.
Oh they knew the way.
Mashed green bananas and special. Salt season.
Dropped lightly . In fried to gold.
Out and rolled with a green glass bottle then.
Deep fry again.
Hot plantain fu-fu.
In coconut oil.
Hello Africa.
Kenya.
Nigeria.
Sweet and nice.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
I'm death defyed by you
Your warm skillet
Of afterthoughts
And tongues
The sweet taste of
Teardrop and bubblegum
The *** from the nurses
Cabinet
The stairwell
We had a good habit
Only to lash out
Of many times like this
When I kiss the cheek
Of a monster
And steer down
A road less inhibbited
One we want to know again
One that taste of teardrops and sin
And fun nights of running
With guns down
the streets of Adalie
And once again
We find this bliss
Somewhere between
Heaven and who gives a ****
Where the stars kiss our toes
And wine fills our holes
From valinquished unrelinquesed love
Replaced by sweet current aftertaste
Trying to perfect this flow
Is a hell of who knows
Why must I travel down it again alone
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
when he was 84, he rarely recalled
the Great War, though he left a finger somewhere
in French soil, and on deep sleep nights,
few and far between, it would call him
a spectral image of gas dead faces
drifting through like sallow clouds
in the charcoal sky
his nephew was the only one left
to fish these green waters, to court the steady
trout that he too saw in his dreams--all the others,
even his own sons, marching in the concrete squares
of the cities, visiting now and then like peddlers
hawking wares he could not understand...
soccer games and mutual funds
gourmet feasts at eateries
with cryptic names
the lake was still the same
the loons chatting, the waves lapping
but without his Helen, the fish he caught
were usually granted reprieve, saved from
his sharp gutting blade, her sizzling skillet,
and without her beside him under her ancient quilts,
the nights were not longer, for grief, he knew,
did not stretch time, but only
made its circle smaller
was a sun sated Saturday
when the nephew had honey do's as good excuses
and the old man was left alone, sitting by a black rotary phone,
waiting for one of his old nine digits to dial the new nine and two ones,
it is what they all would have expected, a cry for help, a long mute ambulance ride, them seeing him helpless with hoses and wires, delaying the funeral pyres, as was the custom in this post teen century
instead, though he felt the anvil on his chest,
and sweat drenched his JC Penney work shirt,
he moved not his feeble fingers to the phone, but his fated feet
to the lake, once only a long a hop from the porch, now a mammoth journey, ten, twelve Sisyphus steps downhill--when he reached the waters edge, the fowl called him casually, their slow song on the currents,
and he sat in the fresh grass, watching the painted blue sky
he saw the fins of those he had set free, hoping
that would count for something
when he curled in fetal repose,
and closed his eyes
by this lonely lake
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
Home
Some people can recognize
A tree or a front yard
and know
they've made it home
The walk from the car door
To the front porch
Becomes habitual
Instead of intentional
They get lost in the
Contentment of familiarity
But what happens when you
find yourself
So adrift, so off-course
That you've worn a path in the circle you find yourself walking in
What if the place you're looking for,
Your home
Was never really home After all
But rather a false sense of security
Wrapped up
In a pretty pink ribbon
On top of the layers
Of gripping manipulation
How many circles can I walk in
Before I give up looking?
How long before I'm lost for good?
Home for me
Is not the familiar walk
To the front door
Or the yard with overgrown grass
that makes weeds look like bushes
Home is a sea of senses
Blending together in perfect harmony
Home is walking in
And seeing red
Red skillet
Red chair
And my favorite redheads
Home is the smell of
Fancy hand soap
Fresh laundry
Fragrant candles
And farty brussel sprouts
Home is the first sound you hear
A chuckle
A musical
The clearing of a throat
Our favorite tv show
Home
In a nutshell
Is freedom
Freedom to laugh
To cry
Or maybe both at the same time
To yell and to vent
Without the burden of shame
Or regret
So home
You see, is more
Than the tree
Or the porch
Those things could vanish
And leave you stranded
Home is laughter
And friendship
That won't leave you lost
It is safety and belonging
That says
“You are okay”
It is the weight of a burden being Lifted off your shoulders
Home is love
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
The cast iron skillet of love
Fell on me from up above
No time for a warning to be said
It landed squarely on my head
Pain far from dull
It caved in my skull
Scrambled my brains
Let them all drain
Gray matter splatered
Nothing else mattered
An unstoppable event
It quickly came and went
It left my heart sore
My brains on the floor
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
The colors of your shirt stick
to your skin
Swollen, tired, tattered
The dirt collecting
Under, Over, On
In the stillness of the new moon
You became a mother
A wife
A daughter
Through the thickness of the humid air
the sweat collected on your brow
the nape of your neck
A crying child
A barking dog
Some butter on a scalding skillet
Oh, Marisol!
If your hands could speak
The scars and lines would serenade the sun
and soothe your cousin's swollen cheeks
the gold in your teeth
would shine each time you smiled
and said goodbye
but
your chestnut hair is whipped by the wind
instead
and laced black leather boots
tower over you
in the haze
they grasp your arms
as if they are their own
and cover you in white
to protect themselves
Oh Marisol!
it is now late at night
but you shine for the love you brought
with you
across six nations
all of them packed
and stacked neatly
you carry them strapped on your back
like the sun kissed streets of Cuenca
cultivated, preened, and compressed
put into the back pocket
It is in dusk when you lay your head
Down on that cold, dry, earth
And grasp that plastic bottle to your breast
Closed eyes and memories of sunrise
20 miles away from the southwest
America rises still beyond
Fences lined with flowers pale
As white and rich as all those men
But towers over you of course
and in the shadows of the Joshua trees
You can depart for home again
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
At three or so I would awaken
Out of a fragile sleep
to the clang of pots and bowls
Cabinets, silver spoons and a measuring cup
Pancakes fried in a skillet
Buckwheat from a box
I don’t know how long I lay there
Listening
And I wondered whom else in the house can hear
I was closest to the door that led to you
Just one door that separates
Were the others in this darkened house staring at the wall or ceiling? Counting?
Afraid, just a little.
Thinking about the morning
when it comes
After your feeding,
the kitchen
would be cleaned to its former glory
Spotless
And into the bathroom
Right next to my ears
You would step softly and close that door behind you
Turning on the sink’s faucet
And then the shower
Taking the laxatives
And wait
I wait
We all wait in this house for you to finish
It goes on and on
And then you turn off the water
Go back to bed
And maybe then I can sleep
Again.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
Morning
Softly fall the bright yellow beams
Across the hardwood floor.
Awaken as the skillet scrapes
Across the iron stove.
In rhythm with the fizz and pop
As eggs and bacon fry,
And blending with the wind-chime song
Of black-capped chickadees.
Afternoon
Ambrosia air breathes calming scents
Of grass and lake and farm.
Pillow-down clouds and sultry sun
Reflect on sleeping ponds.
The sounds of summer pulse and course
On waves of humid air.
The maple crack of a wooden bat;
July's favorite pastime.
Evening
The apricot horizon fades
and bows to glowing moon;
While fireflies flare and fade into
The silver stars above.
As mellow as the mourning dove,
The distant owl sings.
Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow will be,
Another midsummer's day.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Modern and Contemporary Poetry
takes up most of the passenger seat.
Pages' edges ruffled like the balled-up polo I'm wearing. *Tommy Hilfiger'd
be rolling in his millions.* Twenty minutes till work's screen door crashes on the frame twice before settling. Three salad plates, a skillet, and two jars of unsweetened tea condensate
on the metal counter. They soak dinner bills and paper towel coasters.
The front door vacuum seals behind sandal families reeking of Chlorine
and hairspray. Beachy look. Three more families crowd in behind them, taking turns sifting through the hostess desk peppermints for discarded toothpicks. Reservations for 7:00 come in at 6:50 and demand a table. They're just like the mints packed tightly
in the lobby, but there are a few patient ones at the bottom. They're the ones that inspire stanzas in Modern and Contemporary Poetry, the college textbook waiting on my passenger seat. Three more hours.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
He touched me and I said,
“Lock it up, dear
lay off my skillet, *****
I’m running wild fire, anyways,
You know nothing about the smell of burning lilies,
You know nothing of me
I like your winks but only because
the way the lighting frames your face
so beat it solo
and face the clouds alone.”
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
get up early & open the windows to get that
fresh balcony air from the slow-waking city
whisky claws still in my scalp;
smell of last night's stale smoke inside from the girl sleepin' upstairs
and her after-glow cigarettes down on the couch.
nothin' quite like cooking up
some eggs in a greasy skillet,
-- big hot mug of stiff coffee.
(the way it sits like oil in the stomach)
slouched at the table by the window
in longjohns and
an old familiar shirt (no sleeves/girl playin' baseball)
might go smoke in the rain, talk to the neighbour who
feeds the pigeons ...
then pad upstairs and wake up miss new *****
for a little joviality.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC