An Intermission of 30 Lines

Minced Oaths (after a short hiatus)

51. When I was a kid I used to love holiday specials on TV.
Now I drink too much in December,
and April’s never done me any favours.

52. He found episodic television episodic,
hated cats and the notion of fan mail.
“I give up,” he said, “I will accept your apology.”

53. The city had gotten simpler. They were now measuring
themselves in the footsteps of the pedestrian,
and not eating enough fruit.

54. “If I were a sock,” she said assuredly,
“I’d be the left sock, and it would have been years since
I had spoken to the right. And I’d be argyle.”

55. It was fall, and the terrasses were closing.
She bought him enough drinks so that he’d listen.
“I care about him,” she said, “I just don’t care for him.”

56. He really liked her, and had bought a 12 pack of condoms.
It wasn’t until later, when he couldn’t afford his rent,
that he realized the error of his eagerness.

57. “How’d you find that picture of the llama with a gun?”
“I was googling pictures of llamas with guns.”
“The internet is awesome.”

58. He didn’t love her because she was a horrible person,
he loved her because he was a horrible person.
“You see what they did there that was stupid?”

59. Winter was coming and he worried about leaving
her there alone, about the city in his absence,
the falling mercury, the fragility of his confidence.

60. They were burdened by neither school nor employment.
They had nothing but words and bourbon and new records
to fill the lateness of their days. They would be missed.