Created long ago for my blog on Xanga. For your reading pleasure.
To her jaundiced eye, it was plain as the nose on her face that there was something different about him. He was tall, dark and handsome, with legs that wouldn’t quit and eyes to die for. He sat on his high horse, poker-faced, looking at her as if she were a tree stump.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “Hey, big boy, why don’t you come down and see me sometime?”
“Oh, that old chestnut,” he sighed. “I’m damaged goods. I’ve got blood on my hands. I’ve killed the fatted calf, the goose that lays the golden eggs, two birds with one stone, my chances, the ump, and time. I beat a dead horse.”
“Well, things always look better in the morning,” she said. “It’s an ill wind that blows no good. Everything happens for a reason. Get down off your high horse of a different color, Mr. High and Mighty, I’ve got all my eggs in one basket, and I’m hungry enough to eat a bear.”
After a square meal, she shared her last crust of bread with him, and they sat whistling in the dark. “You’ve been kindness itself,” he muttered. “I don’t know how to repay you as I go. I’d have to rob Peter to pay Paul through the nose.”
“You can pay lip service,” she said, sealing her words with a kiss. She had kisses like wine, like the kiss of death, and she sent shivers up his spine.
They sat and watched the world go by, the grass grow, paint dry. “You’ve got time to kill, all the time in the world, and time heals all wounds,” she murmured. “Time will tell. From time immemorial, time out of mind, time and time again, time has cured all ills. There’s no time like the present. My time is your time. In these troubled times, we can have a whale of a good time.”
“It’s crunch time,” he responded. “Time and tide wait for no man. Time flies; time is money. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. The enemy comes in like a flood. I must go to town, on the warpath, whole hog, half-cocked, like the wind, against the grain, till we meet again, dear friend.”
So he gave her a fish, and they ate for a day. He taught her to fish, and she ate for a lifetime. She made him a silk purse from a sow’s ear. He rode off into the sunset, and she let him go, watching like a hawk, keeping her eyes peeled until she couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Then she cried her eyes out, a flood of tears. She had made her bed; now she slept in it the sleep of the weary.
In the dead of night, it rained cats and dogs. Every cloud had a silver lining, but an ill wind blew no good. The rain fell on the just and the unjust, and on her parade, because when it rains, it pours.
And far from the madding crowd, he discovered that the light at the end of the tunnel was the headlight of a train of thought.
Fine Roadkill Cuisine 