waiting for the hatching

the days turn into weeks, the weeks into years, the years into tears, and the tears into beers that slide right through you. down through the braghuh and the briguh and the bobagaloon. the slap happy flippin and the granpappy floppin and the jimminey cricketdagroodle, da grottle. a lot to expect from a happy whore who just sold her store. the least she could do is sell the well behind her vacant lot, open up the plot. not much more than an evening bore but somethin to satisfy the middle man stuck between the lines of age. read between em. it's hard to see em but they're there. wedged between here and now and then and there. easy to conceal, easy to reveal. peel slowly, discover undercover. the dust and the rippled plastic can not hide what lies inside for their is wisdom from within the confines of the coverings that we all wrap around our sleeveless gowns and tailored tops. sleek and smooth, they attempt to soothe the pressure in the hose we all try to compose. it doesn't matter what's in the batter, it's what's on the ladder, waiting for the climb you can't manage, the cost you can't cover, the course you can't complete, the enemy you can't defeat. all of this laying there in front of you, the mess of your life, the dreams that came true, the beautiful blue, the solvent on the base, the charm of the case, the socks that are not matching, right there on the bed. all the while, waiting for the hatching.