Moss on a Log

Who knows where the ignition hides? I found it. Insert the key and put my foot to the pedal. Oh joyous night, Saturday last. I was a bumper car racing across the greased floor of the Phoenix. My head was an electric wire scraping the sparking ceiling of my local pub; parked in the corner no longer proved an amusement. Never again sedentary moss growing on a log, I was bubbly Moss ready for a jog. Yet still I scolded myself, "Keep those keys in your pocket Gayest Neil!" But no! Again and again I found myself in the boy's room throttling my engines and peeling my tires, typically with a friendly dandy (or two) in tow.

This tired, old fop, exhausted from last week's brutality at the hand's of Michaud, became the chattiest Chesire in the room. My grin stretched from cheek to cheek, broad as DeLay's with no delay twixt the rainy funk of a soggy early evening commute and the latter, a jazzy jukebox singing my boyfriend's favorite Funk.

But oh, how the evening's rain eventually melted the snow; the blizzard dissolved into a pool in stark contrast to the hours (which earlier melted into minutes, nay seconds) now froze, crystallizing into days, nay months. Then too the pool betrayed my recreation. I attempted to wade across it, but it too froze, leaving me exhausted and worn down. I feared we would slip and fall. Thus with darkened eyelids and heavy boots we stumbled into the morning light. The cock refused to crow, no matter how teasingly we throttled his red coxcomb. And regardless of mutual admiration for a friendly dandy (or two), our duo remained as such with no addition of a troi to our ménage.

That thrilling bumper car became a humble taxi, a yellow and black bumble bee whose incessant buzzing was a poor match to the acrid honey of elapsed metallic drippings. Feeling under the weather on an overcast morn, I openly mourned the night's inhibitions while not too secretly anticipating the season's next flurry.