there was a time, some time ago

when some said

that my son “looks like me”.

nobody says than anymore.

I look like a pasty raisin.

a pasty raisin Sunkist

tossed from the box like the weakest

nestling from the home weave.

I’m convinced that kids are deciding

whether or not to throw stones at me

as I walk to the variety store to buy eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

I miss the jingling bells

hanging atop the doors

of the old, common variety stores.

they carried a pleasant tune of welcome.

the guy behind the counter seems

uninterested in everything; everything on Earth.

he looks at me like I’m from Mars.

if he had a stone back there he’d throw it at me.

maybe he thinks I’m up to something.

what I’m up to is clearly defined in my brain.

a dozen eggs and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.