There are some odd ones here.
Ones I barely recognize as myself.
Ones I roll my eyes heavenward at,
but only in mock exasperation.
Or is it in recognition?
Surely, this could not be my disposition...
I hear idiot half-sentences...
Muttered, uncompleted thoughts,
somewhat like the ones limping around in my head.
Oh they have come from different places,
they are like Dracula and Frankenstein.
But yet the whole of this fits.
Well, some whole, others only half-whole.
All fallen from the same crooked tree,
and always trying to scramble back up again.
See the man in the grey flannel suit,
with the painful pinching wingtips...
Thinks he's hidden behind his glasses
and that grim, intolerant smile.
He's armed with a book for protection.
But its only paper.
I can see right through you, mister.
Its another episode.
with me writing here
at this small, half-abandoned cafe.
Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Copyright 2010, but written and re-written over a period of time.