most nights. Hydrate. Eat
often, and take lots of time
with plan, and gather, and
prep. And, as you & she would
aim: more than one thing.
Willy-nilly. Avaunt! Heigh-ho.
Don't worry about money. It's o.k.;
smart enough, for now---fret not.
See every movie you might like,
and breakfast with any who will.
Take walks. Spend hours with
the dying leaves. Get a little
chilly and go inside to warm up.
Remember the bathtub. Love Chet
well (that may leave thee ere long).
Try the steering fluid. Sell the
Jeep. You can do it. It can end its
motoring days with another. Just
take out the sentimental rocks.
Finally: don't even try not to
think of that one, but practice
giving up wishes. They're right,
Polly's Buddhists, though you're
not altogether with them. Now go on
and sing songs to yourself, and ponder
inertia, cuz it applies to motion, too.
Mix well, until firm. Serves one.
Of course this comes out with thoughts of that little Larry Ferlinghetti that fits so well on a postcard, the list recipe poem I used to do variations of in my head (as Denise used to write her own personalized "My Favorite Things" now & then):
Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk Or Anyplace
One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand café in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.
One fine day.
Is that a great poem, or what? Of course the lover-of-you is great, but so are the strong coffee and the very small cups. And the bisexuality, and the un-"looks"ist-ness. And the way the last line, like "Serves six. Enjoy!" (all my mother's recipes seemed to end with "Enjoy"), is almost implicitly a conclusion/product of the cooking, as well as a step/ingredient.
Okay, I just went up and tacked on that last two lines in mine. Though the recipeness of the title is kinda oblique/afterthought by then. Yeah, I think they should be cut. Do you?
Chop off the last two lines?
"Betty Ferlinghetti" --- good name for a dog?
(Thanks for the cantaloupe, BAM. And for the cantaloupe thought.)