Last Jar of Skippy for the Road

peanut butter.

Last Jar of Skippy for the Road

 

Friday night at the apartments on

War Memorial.  You know the one,

next to Chili’s and across from the

liquor emporium you thought was a deli.

 

The one with the lonely staircase to the

third floor where you now spend the

last of the macaroni and cheese days,

knowing full well you’re alone.

 

The smile that stretches your face,

the way you still draw maps, and

the making sure that no crumb escaped,

the uneasiness when your son comes to visit.

 

The laughter doesn’t change, the

phone calls don’t stop, thinking

at 50 doesn’t get any easier, Mel Brooks

and Monty Python are still funny as hell.

 

There’s a slumber in your voice now as

the caricatures of the day slip under

you start to wonder why you never learned

guitar, or took up acting, you were great in

 

Harvey by the way.  You’re now an

idealist in a kitchen with a jar of Skippy,

the past 11 years spread too thin with bananas

not ripe enough or good enough.

Author's Note

Take a few seconds to review when you stop by. I don't bite.