It was tomorrow when I thought I could go down the stairs to the basement of a big house. The big house, so small, enticed by a Via8rA commercial made me sing,
“Good Morning, Good Morning, I slept the whole night through,”
“Me too,” Mrs Lemon was baking her finger nails in a tub of hot boiling eggs for breakfast trays.
On the other side of town cryers shouted out loudly wailing as cars past me by the dock of the bay. No wonder I felt lighter than a fluffy cloudy day, rain coming down in like cats and dogs running around frantically in rabid hunger.
“For sure,” said Mrs Lemon, “I shouldn’t bake these, Elsha will thing they’re too fatning butter all over my Uber Bagels waving bready smelly stuff through my window pane of glass.
I realized then, no matter how fast i walked down the crowded streets, my feet hardly touched the grass on the outside of the city’s park way of living.
“Come here,” said the hobo, “How ‘you feel?”
“I feel more like i do now then when I first got here!”
“Copy that; go to staples!