Less Yellow

In the midst of the middle with a stone in my bed, absolutely nothing had fallen my way. I befell a certain curtain chaser with a penchant for sodium pentathol and a mincemeat pie methodology on his way to uncharted technology. I asked him: “Hello, where are you going so fast?” and I met his response, a fist to the gut. It stung for two days as I wallowed and cried, just wondering why a man would cause a stranger such pain. I meditated, prayed and fasted for days, just trying to see where that man’s passion lay. Then I stood by my doorframe, abstaining from nourishment until I knew for sure that this man would come back. Thankfully for my health, he was there in ten minutes, as though he’d known I was waiting for some reason. I asked him again: “Hello, where are you going so fast?” and I met his response, a fist to the very edge of my gut’s personal space, then quickly withdrawn. He had a smile on his face. He said: “You young men have too much curiosity. It could kill you if you don’t understand with whom you should not speak. You’re lucky I’m a conscientious fellow, and I teach you this lesson just to make you less yellow.” He then went on his way, as quick as before, and I yelled after him: “Did you mean to rhyme like that?” He stopped in his tracks and let out an audible laugh before continuing on his predetermined path.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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