Mr. Blotto

"What are you doing?" Sallye asked.

"Just sitting here taking drugs and watching those black and white bowls of flesh on TV bouncing around like Jane Russell's tits," Johnathan said.

"Those are Jane Russell's tits," she told him with a laugh as she walked on through the living room toward the kitchen.

"Oh. My mistake. No wonder it's in black and white."

"Not really," she laughed. "That's not a color TV."

"Hoo, that's right!" he grinned. "Call me Mr. Blotto."

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Mary's Child

There must have been
Some days when she forgot,
When the child was only a child—
Not that epiphanal flash sprung forth
Like an arrow from the bow of God,
But only a plodding child
With an affinity for dirt.

She must have stood
Some days in the doorway
Concerned with his mortal hurts,
Watching with a mother's eye
As his naked feet went pounding,
Sounding with a child's quick beat,
Through hard and narrow earthbound streets.

There must have been
Those days when she forgot,
But soon she would remember
And know it every day
That each passing day he became
More and more like an arrow
Returning to the heart of God.

rcs.


4th draft: 08/12/01
©1980 Ronald C. Southern

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