Ode to the Waiter

Ode to the Waiter

Oh, how a simple, pleasant visit to the grocery store can be so quickly spun awry.  For what reason, you may ask?  The waiters . . . I hate the waiters.

The waiters I loath, however, are not the gentle people who bring good fare and friendliness to my restaurant table.  No.  The aforementioned are quite the opposite.  I'm referring to the parking spot prowlers, the people who cruise the entire lot looking for that one golden space.  You know which spot I'm talking about: the one just beyond the handicap preserve.  Waiters unscrupulously follow exiting shoppers to their vehicles and snatch their soon-to-be vacancy.  I despise getting stuck driving behind one.  What's worse?  When they wait for you. . .

You can practically feel their exhaust breathing down your neck and their glaring lights on the back of your head.  What do you do?  Move faster in fear?  Move slower in spite?  I choose spite.  And I have a few words for all the waiters out there:

You are the cloud for which I have to find the silver lining.

You are the dark side for which I need a bright.

You are the bad ending to a good book.

You are the lump in my pillow and the lumpy pillow that replaced it.

You are the bad apple in the basket and the fly in my soup.

Bottom line, sometimes I'd rather grow my own corn, raise my own chickens, and bake my own breakfast cereal than have someone wait behind me for my spot while I'm loading groceries in my car.  So for the love of all things deli and produce, please, just park a little further and walk.  You probably need it.

Ode to The Pillow

Ode to The Pillow

Oh, the comforting softness of the perfect pillow!

Few things on this Earth compare to the tranquil embrace of a bed pillow.  Its gentle cushion eases restless and wandering minds.  It selflessly bears the weight of burdened thoughts.  The pillow is both an open forum and a safeguard of deep secrets.  Even the sweetest of dreams rest in the very same place.  

Reality, however, cannot be forgotten even upon these cozy sanctuaries.  Dark nightmares are never further than a minute brain function away.  They lurk dreadfully and immeasurably close to one’s most comforting memories.  The catalyst for that synapse . . . ?

. . .

. . . . . . Fear.

The cure?  An easy mind.

The irony?  It is a luxury buried in a pillow.  A perfect pillow.  A treasure as rare as true love, the perfect pillow not only aids in rest or sleep, but in restful, life-altering sleep.  Find yours.  Conquer your dreams.

Ode to the Stove Crevasse

Ode to the Stove Crevasse

What terror lurks hidden between the stove and the neighboring cabinet?

Crumbs?  Most likely.
Resident insects which we'd sooner like to forget?  Possibly.
Or is it something more devious? . . . Who's to say?

Try to recall what you've swept into that black void over time.  It is most certainly a combination of culinary refuse along with the chemicals used to clean it.  A graveyard of exoskeletons: insects which ventured but never returned.  But why?  Why does nothing emerge from that void?

Perhaps an evolutionary experiment carries on among the carrion.  Something evolves down there.  It grows.  And it's omnivorous appetite is endless.  Every niblet of disregarded corn and each stray dehydrated noodle serves to nourish and satisfy the mysterious depth's hunger.  The same fate awaits every splatter of marinara and drop of poultry drippings.  As well, each and every rolled oat, rounded pea, and roasted peanut all stand to feed the anathema in the dark.

But it's never enough . . .

Brush whatever substance you desire into it's gaping mouth.  It is insatiable.  Do you think that's the floor creaking when you walk by your stove?  Think again.  Someone, or something, is hungry. . .

Tuesday 4/6

Ode to the Pothole

Oh, pothole, how devious you are!

In youth, you are unnoticeable and hardly felt under the suspension of our advanced vehicles.  At first, you do little more than gnaw our tires.  Our course remains undeterred and our conscience unmarred.  You are present without presence.  You, pothole, are but an acquaintance to be forgotten.

You grow in girth and in depth.  Your rubber appetite is becoming unquenchable.  Drivers avoid you like it is a game.  For now, you are avoidable, but nonetheless, our cars are built to sustain your bite when necessary.  We know of you, heard your name.  On a clear day, people evade you easily.  You are hungry and patiently waiting for your accomplice: the rain.

Under torrential rain, you wait under puddle, to claw at each unfamiliar driver.  You grow deeper with each strike, too, like gossip, adding fuel to your fire!  You are indiscernible among both pounding rain and sunny aftermath.  You hide like a chameleon, reflecting the world around you when filled, your most dangerous state.  Feast while opportune, pothole, because when you become well-known, you become problematic.  Then, the war begins.

We patch your gaping jaws, but you know it is temporary.  The next rain or freeze has all the potential to un-gag you, rip the tape from your mouth.  Rain equals wrath and the longer it rains, the longer you eat.  Enjoy.

Ironically, man built the roads you infest.  Construction neglect and failure to know the porous soil beneath roadways are your loopholes.  We indulge you with asphalt patchwork on which you gleefully feed.  You are a weed, unable to be nipped in the bud, a recurring nightmare, a cicada outside the bedroom window. 

We cover you, again and again, but you will never cease to exist, as long as red tape barricades solutions, as long as you are economically unviable to repair correctly, and as long as rain falls on this green earth. 

In other words, until the planet dries up, you will forever plague our streets.

By: S. Cole Garrett