Warm and fragrant eggnog latté slips down my throat, Nutmeg satisfies so sweetly this nod for simple reflection.
An entourage of features sally forth before my repose, A full regalia of nations and their generations, coexisting within this faux pax and sky lit edifice with a modicum of normalcy . . . . . while outside horsemen hold snorting visionaries at bay.
To my right a bill board is alive with flashing magic and fashion. A curious smile balances on my lips for having been propelled into the eventual with the turn of my head, and staring at the mode o' day rotation . . . . . somehow my mind wonders to the elfin mystique of Audrey Hepburn on the cover of Life Magazine.
I hate the last sip of my tepid latté, And heave a regretful sigh As the milkman in dress whites and centered cap, Presses a single chime to the doorbell . . . The icy bottles having been deposited on the porch.
The snappy refrain of the March of the Toreadors calls in hushed tones from my book bag, and with the adept acuity of modern man I flip open my line of communications. Tossing my reflections along with the paper cup I merge back into the parade,
But my step hides a lingering sadness . . . . A realization of the last generation To snap an honest bottle cap.