There are days, sludgy confusing ones,
When I dream of lace gloves, of sitting at a table for one
Where God himself has baked all the answers
Into a nice little “why” muffin, cute and munchable on my plate,
To be washed down with a bit of tea.
How quaint, methinks! Just me and my answers!
But the dream is interrupted, every time,
By him sitting across from me, raising his cup, his pinky, his brow,
(He’s great company despite the theatrics),
“And pray tell me, where’s the fun in that, darling?”
By Ally Bartoszewicz