Lunch (an acrostic poem)

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Looking at his sandwich, he wondered if there was a better way

Unless sliced bread was the height of sandwich technology

Now he pulled out notebook and began drawing diagrams and writing notes

Completing one design before discarding it for the next, and after some time many pages were filled with scribbles

However, soon the clock told him to go back to work, and the sandwich was still there, taunting him

Run Away (an acrostic poem)

Really Paul knew he should get out of there

Undercaffeinated and out of time

Nothing left in reserves

 

And yet here he was, a flaming branch in one hand

Watching the monster squint in his direction

All he wanted to do was to wake up from this nightmare

Yet he knew his alarm clock was never going to go off again

 

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Stumped (an acrostic poem)

Silly little things always gave him fits

Telling time on an analog clock

Untying double knotted shoes

Making really thin crepes

People, on the other hand, he could read like books

Everybody was a simple picture book to him

Debbie on the other hand…

 

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Pastries to the Rescue! (a very short story)

I’m like a broken clock, right twice a day.  Unfortunately, this was not one of them.  How did I know?  The man’s fist changing the direction my chin had been pointing mere moments earlier was my first hint.  Luckily my body is that of a trained warrior.  Well one that had way too much vodka to drink, hadn’t seen combat in the last twelve years and spent half of that time eating fancy buttery French pastries for a living.

At least gravity didn’t fail me.  I collapsed to Mother Earth’s embrace.  I must have offended her as well since her arms were so hard and cold.  I wanted to mourn this decline in our relationship when the aforementioned man decided to kick me in the gut.  That was his big mistake.  I had him right where I wanted him.  I folded myself around that foot and introduced the caught appendage to the regurgitated contents of my lunch, which included an egg sandwich encased in a wonderfully flaky croissant dosed with a lemony hollandaise.  It was so good going down, but not so much coming back the other way.

Still, that was enough to make the man yank his foot out and leave me alone.  As I laid there in my own stomach juices I wondered how this could get worse.  Then I snuffled.

Man, stomach acid and nostrils just don’t mix.

 

 

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Clock (an acrostic poem)

Counting the seconds until this ordeal is over

Listening to the bits of sand fall from the virtual hourglass in my mind

Oblivious to the alarms screaming to do something

Can’t take much more of this for my bum ticker

Killing time was never my thing

 

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