Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Whisk me away to the dance at the barn,

Like that egg yoke you used for the cookies.

And I’ll sit in the passenger seat and spin my yarns,

Like any third-generation cowgirl-turned-city girl should.

We can park by the trees my dad calls cedars

And you can pull out that flashlight until we get inside.

And I can sip my apple cider, and wonder if that girl’s cider

Is sweeter as she sips it on the other side.

We were in a bind that day.

When the semi‘s engine died,

Halfway to Nowhere,

Where we meant to make a delivery

To  a Mom & Pop’s store.

We wore the scarves

We meant to deliver,

As the blizzard blew

On through the fierce cold

And sat on bricks as

We tried to eat a cold dinner,

Parked askew on the side of the road,

On the way to a Mom & Pop’s store

And halfway to Nowhere.

No, No, No.

You’ve got it all wrong!

That isn’t a bunch of ribbons

It’s a lion’s mane

We harvested from our hunt last week.

Those aren’t agates, they’re opals of some grand sultan,

And we’re keeping them safe while he’s on vacation.

And that, my friend, isn’t any old jar of wax,

It’s what we seal our declarations of war with,

Before we fire our arrows,

And we seal our peace treaties with,

So we can end the wars just in time

For afternoon tea.