Garnishes

She always eats the garnishes savoring the sweet triangles of orange that everyone else throws away. She sharpens her pencils down to the yellow chewed up nubs using perfectly good lead to scribble scrambled images of a generic tub of sherbet sunsets, the police officer with the overly long nose hairs and the homeless girl she met who stole ketchup packets from Burger King and squeezed them into her mouth like liquid candy.

She always over-filled her apartment’s washing machine and sometimes out of laundry soap, she’d use some Dollar Store dishwashing liquid hoping she wouldn’t come back to find waves of suds hip high. She gave her cat a can of kippers for her birthday every year and the last movie she saw was a romance two years ago at the Dollar Reel Theater. It was then that she decided she’d rather waste twenty five cents on a Fabio Harlequin romance at the Youth Ranch than waste three bucks on a stupid movie.

Bored at times, she’d read the Craigslist ads. She’d write the following: “Looking for a weirdo who likes pickle shots, rummaging through thrift store magazines looking for ones with the smelly perfume samples and making up stories about people as we sit and watch them in bars, markets and laundromats.  Looking for someone who reads Bukowski with a grain of salt and Neruda with this Pasilla peppers.

Must be brain and soul proportionate and must be willing to go to any lengths to find the best recipe for funeral potatoes. Cannot have random Celtic symbol tattoos if you know nothing about their origin.

Prefer people who give a rip about people on the margins and one who would like to read poetry with a Cuba Libre on my back patio abutting the canal that my neighbors and I pretend is an actual river. It’s gurgles and natural cooling system that cools down the patio oven hot cement at sunset.

She figured she’d post her ramblings and laugh satisfied by  each single minute of minutiae she’d send filling her seventy nine cent Kings department store spiral notebook with her chewy, nubby pencil. On a perpetual lookout, she finds all of the garnishes for her wicked brimming life.

Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn M. Bevington. All Rights Reserved.

Reserve this poem!

Click here to let us know you're interested in illustrating this poem.

1 thought on “Garnishes”

Comments are closed.