running on fumes

a mouse ate my cookies.

little varmints have no respect

for the sweet-toothed savage

who sips ginger beer for breakfast.

so, i'll trek to the market,

stand in line for eternity

wondering what time it is

and will i make it home

for the evening news.

the eclectic, eccentric lover,

collectible to holiday shoppers

who wear blood-red jackets

and torn jeans.

and i, the heart with no brain,

am devoured like chocolate mints

to veil the odor of alcohol...

in view of some optimism

of a midnight rendezvous.