Good Intentions
I could say this was a poem about procrastination. But I'll do that later.
When I get out of bed, you’ll be certain and sure
I’ll provide some grand scheme for relief of the poor.
I shall combat injustice, by land and by sea
And the world will rejoice. Just you leave it with me.
When I get out of bed, there are grand things in store.
But not yet. I shall sleep, I think, five minutes more.
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When I finish dinner, I shall end all the wars.
End the conflicts and battles a good man abhors.
And the nations will see a brand new Golden Age
When my efforts release humankind from its cage.
I shall get to it soon, but right now I must dine.
I have promised you freedom. Will you pass me the wine?
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Sometime later this week, I’ll begin the good fight.
Through the strength of my arm, ev’ry wrong I shall right.
Fear ye not, ye good souls, for your hero shall rise
To frighten the Devil with a flash of his eyes.
You can count off the days. Your salvation is near.
Maybe this week. Or next. Surely sometime this year.
About the Creator
Martin Estridge
Occasional actor, infrequent writer, amateur photographer, aspiring electrician.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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