Green Sandal Monologue
by JD DeHart


Laundry has to be done, but I am not doing it today. I am on break today. All day long. The world is not perfect, you will not find it this way and you will not be responsible to leave it this way.

Strawberry wine is good when executed correctly; when the air gets to it, it tastes like tires. Drunkenness is not essential to a good drink. If the drink isn’t good, then you might want to shoot it down fast. But, then, why did you drink it in the first place? The best winery in town is actually outside of town; you can settle for the closer one, but the air gets to the wine too easily there. You will be embarrassed if you buy it as a gift for someone.

I do not like lawn chairs but I do like a nice chair to sit in the shade, beneath an umbrella. I burn too easily. My sandals are clumped up with grass. It will need to be mowed again, sometime after I finally do laundry. The dogs bring in evidence of the yard each time they step back into the house. Summer goes quickly, but so does everything else; in autumn, the feeling of death is in the air. It is the process of leaving something behind; winter comes and we sit quietly in our houses, staying warm; spring opens up the opportunity but be careful because cold still comes as part of the package – sometimes, rarely, and without warning.




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