Deb Porter writes, “ok then, can you wax poetic on cigarette butts?”
I don’t think we can accept this as an entry, unless Deb is proposing butts as an entry, in which case it would be rejected. Butts littering the pavement or steeping in rainwater tea—they’re insidiously pervasive when you start noticing, which I don’t advise, but not stupid per se. One place they are especially numerous is on the asphalt outside my parents’ retirement home. You would think that all these folk wheeling around oxygen canisters would have a cautionary effect on the young blacks and Latinos working there but I guess not. Of course it could be the middle-aged cook having a quick drag. In any case we’re once again skirting the quicksand of behavior, with dangers of judgmentalism. Let’s refocus on the butts themselves.
Deb Porter must know that I already wrote about cigarette butts, recently, as a matter of fact (“No Ifs and No Ands, But Butts Aplenty”), thus run the risk of getting identified. Unless, unless… it’s not the butts at all but waxing poetic being proposed.
Waxing poetic. It brings to mind the photo on page 138 of a history of Lourdes, with this caption: The entombed body of Bernadette, lightly coated in wax after its third exhumation, presented in a reliquary after the beatification in 1925. It’s a miracle at any time to look that good, especially considering she died in 1879.
Waxing poetic. It brings to mind a stark white Parliament with a ring of wine-dark lipstick in a pewter ashtray. My dear friend Marylee.
It reminds me it’s been years since I waxed my truck. Clearly I’d rather wax poetic than wax my truck. But I may have failed here.