A Song for My Supper
Since I left school, I only sing in the shower or in the car.
A fortuneteller once told me that I should not give up my day job.
In September, I like to take long walks into the surrounding hills.
And we all know that the hills “are alive with the sound of music.”
I like to believe that whistling a cheerful tune can solve something of note.
Fairy tales can come true if I can only slay a few of the sleeping dragons
that seem to gather under my bed whenever there is a heat wave.
Maybe I shouldn’t blame my lack of storybook endings on these gate-crashing dragons.
I should be getting a delivery soon of the stew that my cats can’t live without.
If I play my cards right, I can bribe the cats into chasing off the uninvited guests.
By the weekend, I expect that I can be singing up a storm
and some real clouds that just happen to be in the neighborhood
will produce a measurable downpour.
I also will be feeding my face with a large helping of spicy meatballs.
And that will be the biggest fairy tale of them all.
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