Nuns and bacon

I’ve got shaving cream stuck on my

earlobe and a strand of dental floss

clinging to my right shoe.  That faint

smell of bacon comes from my briefcase,

where I absent-mindedly stashed what

I was supposed to give the dog when the

phone rang with a reminder of the doctor’s

appointment which I seem to have

forgotten in my confusion following the

unfortunate incident with the street sweeper

and the crocodile formation of

pre-schoolers crossing the divided highway.

CD seven of my new box set from the

library was playing at the time, something

about accepting life as it comes, so I

didn’t lay on the horn and instead smiled

at the gigantic nun waving her hands in the

central reservation.  The word “wimple”

got stuck in my mind and I spent the rest of my

drive thinking about rhymes for it, of which

there are precious few, which may partly

explain the paucity of decent nun poetry,

and also attempting to undress her in my

imagination, only to be thwarted at every turn

by a gleaming steel under-habit with a

big sign saying “For God’s sake, keep out!”

Felt a little better by the time I got to work,

especially when the receptionist winked

at me, but then I couldn’t stop imagining her

as a nun.  Weird.  Maybe if I’d gone to

Catholic school this wouldn’t be a problem,

which actually might just be the best reason

I have heard so far for supporting school vouchers.

I wonder if Jesus was ever late for work,

probably not while carrying bacon, and if Mary

Magdalene ever let him look under her robe.


A bit of stream-of-consciousness insanity to share with friends at the fabulous dVerse Poets Pub.