Poetry of the Insane
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25 Cents a Glass Stan Lauritson was running late to his sales appointment. He really needed a life insurance sale desperately to end his slump. He looked down at his notes to see where he had to turn next. He looked back at the road and saw a flash of color. He slammed down hard on his brakes. His Cadillac screeched to a halt a half-inch from a little blonde-haired boy. “Hey!” Stan yelled, pushing the power button on his window. “What are you doing in the middle of the road? I oughta tell your parents!” “My parents are dead, mister. I was just trying to sell you some Kool-aid.” The boy said, poking his thumb toward his table with cups and a pitcher of red liquid. A sign drawn in blue crayon read “25 cents a glass”. Stan felt badly since he almost creamed this orphan with his Cadillac so he pulled over and got out. “Alright kid, I'll get a glass,” said Stan fishing a quarter out of his pocket. The little boy quickly grabbed the quarter. “Thanks mister. This is fresh. I just made it.” He grabbed a plastic cup and poured Stan a glass, spilling some red liquid on the table. “Here you go.” “Thanks,” said Stan, grabbing the cup. He took a gulp from the cup and then spat out the drink, gagging. “That's blood!” “I said my parents were dead, mister!” Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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