It's To Be Dog Days Again

It’s July and the height of summer. Long has this remnant of happier times past been left on the gutter. Groggily writhing as an unforgiving sun rains fists down upon its parched needles. Drowsy with Vitamin D and deluded. It can hear Charlie Brown distantly serenading in its dry, dry bark brain.

A flung terrarium. Once teeming and verdant with life within. Now dusty and discarded. What was once cooed over and nurtured is fending for itself and likely never to feel a tender touch nor sigh of admiration again. A damning prognostication of earth, if the state of affairs keep pace. Down and out and dumped on the side of the road of the Universe.

Finery flung far from the window. The dish managed to run away with the spoon, it turns out. Their love was young and pure once. But time and misfortune found them still. Tramping along the Midwest, they attempted to hop a midnight freight train. The dish warned against it. She developed scurvy and had a slight limp. But the spoon was self-medicating and screamed for her to jump. Screaming louder and louder.

She leapt. But leapt short. And was caught up in the wheels.

Now the spoon spends his days prostrate. A pariah even among the other Filmore vagrants. And weeping to himself, “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.”

Occasionally the Christmas tree will tell him to shut up.