We only have one store in town,
the big bad wolf come to destroy everything we hold dear,
or at least drive all other businesses from the bank of our river.

So when my wife asked for some prescription pain-killer
(and also some latex-free "friends")
I forced to face the fiend.

They were painting the L
when I walked into the gaping maw
they call a sliding door entrance.

A friendly old person, brain-washed
to say only 'Hello, would you like a cart?'
asked me if I would like a cart.

I told her no, thank you,
turned, ran out the door,
and slipped on a puddle of freshly spilled white paint.

The Manager of the monster
brought me a 4 dollar knock-off for the pain,
which I took it home to my wife and said, "Sweetie, next time aspirin and latex will have to do".

I've been told I look like the Miller,
short, round, somewhat balding.
I take it as a compliment, because I
am, short round, somewhat balding.

So I read his tale. Seemed simple enough.
A girl, a guy, the girl's old husband,
the priest down the lane that likes to kiss
peoples "ers".

I like it enough to read it to my wife,
who, like every other time I read something to her,
gave a whimper. No laughter, no smile.
A whimper of disgust? A whimper that really said,
'Honey, I love you but stop reading to me'?

or was it a whimper of pain?

If only life were as simple as
the Miller's tale.

Her costume caught my eye
as it swayed with the beat,
beat,
beat.

Her feet flowed with the song
like hair in the wind;
her black hair that smelled of mangoes;
the wind that smelled of rice.

Her name was Sandrinha,
little Sandra,
smiling Sandra.

Her reaction to my watching
was a slip of the foot,
causing the team to miss a beat
and lose.

Her only regret after 3 years of love,
crazy-passionate-exotic-Brazilian Love,
was that her Samba team had lost.

I'm an unpublished poet,
still in school.
I teach computers at
the community college.

Somehow
I managed to pay
for twelve dozen red roses.

The color of her blood-clot.

I choked on those petals
when the clot broke free.