Out of Sorts
©2023 Susan Noyes Anderson
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I think my skin is on backwards
or maybe inside-out.
It feels too tight; it feels too loose.
It makes me wanna shout.
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I think my skin is on backwards
or maybe inside-out.
It feels too tight; it feels too loose.
It makes me wanna shout.
“I’ll make a bet with you,” Dad said.
(The desert heat was roasting.)
“I’ll cook your breakfast right out here.”
I thought that he was boasting.
Umbrellas offer solid proof
that weather’s not in vain.
Surely, a drop of rain
deserves a bit of notice.
My years of life have made me tough.
But lately, it’s been kinda rough.
I’ve rocked the highways, low ways, byways.
Nowadays, things seem sorta sideways.
A merry-go-round is Covid, friends.
Somehow, we will ride through it.
The CDC has put out info.
Why don’t we review it?
There once was a woman, grown older,
whose man said her love should be bolder:
“In a romantic sense,
your libido’s past tense.”
His reward? The bold, icy cold shoulder.
My kitchen is a clone of me,
and at its very heart
hums one cold, stainless giant,
covered in graffiti art.
Just jotting down a word or two
to let you know that I love you
and need you, too, if truth were told.
(The bathroom grout is sprouting mold.)