Frost calls shotgun

He was there again.
Waiting in the car, just like always.
She guessed that was where he felt the most comfortable.
He looked like anybody’s sleepy grandpa, with his grey tousled hair, his green wool sweater and navy twill pants.
Some people took care of stray cats and runaways.
She took care of dead poets.
He liked popping in on her while she was running errands.
He said he missed the songs sung during ordinary time and the joy in everyday rituals.
The first time she heard that, she laughed sarcastically, and ensured him that by hanging around with her, he was going to be up to his neck in joy.
But they all missed that, every one that visited her, they all missed the most mundane things.
Smells, inkwells, soap, candles, wool socks, utensils, flannel shirts, twine, keys, ants.
Oddly, never anything sexual.
She often wondered, why her? She was an under-educated, over forty, average housewife.
Why was she now playing host to the ghosts of poets past, many of whose works she suffered through in highschool.
Why her, of all people?
When she first asked her current guest/passenger, Bob, he considered her question for a moment and answered,
“The reason I come here is because you can’t help but take me in.”
At the time, she thought she knew what it was that he was saying… but the truth was she was only on the verge of fully understanding.

Peace ~ Rene
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10 thoughts on “Frost calls shotgun

  1. Rene, you're so, so creative. I love that you referred to Robert Frost as Bob. (That's probably what his other friends called him, eh?) Keep your great writing coming, please!~ Hugs!

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