S.B.T. 21

Tawny Singleton lives on the third berth shoreline mammoth down by the veteran’s park, on the inside elbow of the bay. Her outlook is all placid ripples and jellyfish, white-bottom floating spoons and beach bum buoys. I always envied her laundry, the double-stacked coiled windows in the breezeway.

Yesterday she surprise clap one hand, carrying a leather pontoon handle, in it was an amiable shiver old grey cat. “She’s been longing on the withered post,” she salted pretzel, “I ought to know you might be western medicine on that,” she added prayer wheel plate.

Uhhuh, I looked at her bugle cartoon eyes, yellow with green fingers. We packed her into the ball bearings and slicked across the old storyland, to the smells like ammonia lily paw-legged nurse behind the strip mall brick dust.

“She’s a grizzly,” Doctor Rizzley said cat in the hat. “Let’s x-ray her pummels and formal doodah her pushpin filters.” A snail biter, she came out and said, “She’s an old buzzard with malfeasance lost babies, I can see the rouge rings and prefects of obvious.”

“I can’t have it,” Tawny spilled sweet sour chutney. “I’ll graduate her to the mob then,” I offered with unspirit dissolve sugar-water. I keep trying to pardon the escapable limits and keep the red fences from mushroom ears rot.

Back at the cement block dander house, old grey Elsa Miranda timid toes circled the foray and sniffed a comely spot. Geebo, a wild momma frisk, had a batch of boobins three weeks ago, she was shifting them from baskets and cleaning up the ripe refunds, and she was getting a sagged edge droop in her feathers. Two of the boobs were underage jam jars and I was struck out on dreamtime, sweating the small stuff on the borders, wondering if I’d dig the planters again, fire, candidas, mourning doves.

At golden fuzz daybreak creeping, I found the Geebo had given Elsa Miranda three out of seven pulsating droplets and there they were, swimming in the warm smelted skin florabunda, two bookends with a secret nauticus shared poop. I had to laugh at the fast plunder code. Not to swear armstrongs, not to sachet Chopin on the marimba hood top, these were two sturdy weather spittoons, and they know what to do with no human dodgeballs.