Some springs never change to summer, some women are presentation-pointer thin, but why is it I can’t own a yacht like the muscled milkman’s, boat new-shoot green and boarded by naught save underage sweethearts, boat destined to cruise for decades on yogurt-thick oceans and bays?
Truth now be told (but long, long obscured from me), the curly-headed milkman won the yacht four Augusts ago when his buff-brown charity chance was picked from a fishbowl by a rotund nun at Saint Anthony’s parish hall. The milkman, who early went whistling door-to-door with his tray of full bottles and packs of donuts, soon afterward hired the nun’s licentious brother to be the captain of his yacht.
In time the milkman dubbed the yacht Fine Things. Now, I’m no snitch, but the milkman’s surname is White, the nun is Sister Vera, the current month is July, and though I truly don’t know the captain’s name, something like Procurer would sure seem to be in the ballpark.
William C. Blome is a writer of poetry and short fiction. He beds down nightly in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is an MA graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Taj Mahal Review, The Rusty Nail, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.