When a Story Dies
Man, I hate it when a story dies in the end.
Worse when it dies in the middle.
If only all dying stories would die upfront.
Why work up our hopes?
Why make us smile and make us push
Our toes to the tops of our shoes?
Why make us want to fluff the pillows
And tell our lovers to grab a book,
When all of a sudden the story dies?
Granted, I offend easily.
It comes on suddenly but subtle.
What was that?
Which translates into who was that?
I thought I knew you.
I remember taking a long pull
At my first red beer; ice chips, on the inside
Ice slides on the outside of the wet
Glass mug full of beer.
The July heat went away. I shivered.
And shivered again, understanding the secret
Of beer lovers both present and past. Then
I smacked my lips and wondered,
On second thought if that wasn’t horse piss.
Sandra K Woodiwiss © 2012
