Mouths wide open. That’s how his neighbors spend their evenings nowadays. Necks cocked back to the ceiling, taking in the dripping streams...
Fudge Stanley, I present to you with spectacular regret.
He’s the one who's been sent to save us.
But he’s not answering his phone.
At least for now.
You see he’s a man who keeps his priorities straight.
And he’s got a whole grocery list of pickles and yarn and gizzards and breath mints he needs to pack into his cart before he can add anyone else’s mess.
I know it appears he’s got all the time in the world,
But when he gets home, his business is his own.
And so what if all he ever does is sit around in his apartment,
Melts into his chair,
Into the carpet,
And drips down through the floor to the ceiling of the neighbors downstairs?
Mouths open wide,
That’s how his neighbors spend their evenings these days.
Necks cocked back to the ceiling taking in his dripping streams,
Guzzling them down,
Forgetting about bank meetings, ballet recitals, and the dentist appointment set months ago to pull out the wisdom tooth that has now cracked in two.
Some weeks they spend eight out of seven days standing in a swelling puddle in their living room,
Their mouths gaping,
Getting fat off the spectacular regret.
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