Um, Seriously. Pillsbury. Make my Life Grand!
~b.r.crandall
T hey weren’t on the front steps…the promised
h ot, cinnamon-swirled rolls with cream cheese frosting,
e ven though I was good this year and even better
y esterday…Shit, I was phenomenal yesterday, but not even a bagel.
A nd the song sparrows were quick to let me know the sun would
l ove the world extra-hard today, chirping The Barber of Seville with
l aughter at 5:30 a.m. - Figaro Up, Figaro Down, Alas what a frenzy.
B ut not one baked good outside my door! You’d think I’d
l earn by now never to trust the leprechauns or elves. Only the
u nicorns are faithful and honest with delivered covenant of electrolytes,
r amen, chicken broth, and Micalizzis Italian lemon ice.
T he hernia, Mr. Hendrick, joined Henry in repair before I tripped
o ver a dimple in the grass (what an ass) and snapped my ankle.
G reat. This was before stabbing my eye with the stem of my glasses…
e lectrical work in the dark blinding me from Covid to come…
t he flu…then the colonscopy…oh, Lord the loo, and (of course)
h ow I flew out of the bathtub, too, for six staples in my head.
e h…little sparrows, you’re right. I could always be dead, but I
r eally want a Cinnabon. It is Good Friday, after all.