The navy man across from me drives an antique car that sounds like a jet plane revving.
In fact, the antique car brandishes the following sticker: I LOVE JET NOISE.
The 8 cylinder is the automotive equivalent of Town Crier.The navy man's kids
scream excitedly over the commotion. The Neighborhood Watch, the local retirees,
are undoubtedly communicating to the Base Commander the idiot's antics.
This where I live, the quaint Town of Pongo.
The house next to Sailor Boy belong to an old timer I've named Plutarco.
On Wednesdays, he sits on the porch making spiffy the rifles he fires on Fridays.
P. talks to his wife as if she's a dog. The couple has an elderly German shepherd
that resembles a sausage. Such a sausage I swear I never saw! Every morning,
Plutarco walks his property, head perpendicular to the lawn. Were Plutarco avian,
he'd be a wicked raptor.
On my side of the street resides the owner of a calico cat.
The man has an invalid mother who appears at the window periodically.
The man has a girl friend, I call "Rope" because her head of red is a monument
to the lines stevedores use to tether boats to piers. Rope and Mr. Bates are hoarders.
Their backyard is a cemetery of spent appliances and storage vehicles they move hourly
one side of the house to the other. Neighborhood Watch also has them marked..
An then, there's the village poetess who resides in a make-believe ivory tower.
That would be me ---the former Miss Riot, the present Miss Piety, so far from heaven lives she
and so close to Pat Robertson's Headquarters. Oh well, all is not lost, we of Hampton Roads
can also boast Edgar Cayce, America's foremost psychic. I love binocularing people.
it beats warming a pew full of I'm-sorries. Could a spinster, sorry for nada,
ask for anything more than to observe the human comedy from high up her ivory idiot tower?
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