Conflicted

A whalebone revisted.

Because it was raining tonight, and St. Patrick’s day, that crazy Briton, and the fact that I had no water at my house as the H2O department made a periodic sweep of the non-payers, I tried to call you tonight at 12:30. The snails have returned to the porch and whales are out swimming off-shore again. Blubber to bluberty blub, I might find my way to the pub and a half pint later make the swoon eyes toward the door. But know darling, my aim is true now, nothing but heartfelt sentiment, a little Hamlet, a little argonaut, and you to finish out a secret potion I have kept for a time now. Please be aware of my indiscretions as they are not me at all, I write them off like taxes from an unknown ancestor. You make your way across the street and the whole of the cosmos comes together, at least here in this little place. I have seen you dancing, seen you strumming, 5-string banjos and pedal steel guitars to make light of the situation. Tomorrow I will be back to work. This has to end somehow. I smell it in the air, on this night, a harpoon waiting at starboard, a new whalebone sinking into the setting sun.