On Holiday

look at those baby blues.

one on one off.

He rolled over, uncertain as to whether the holly bush in his side or spider bite on his ankle roused his clouded self. “Not again,” he tought, as the first few rays of light darted between the branches. Being early November, it was brisk and damp under the tree where he finally settled the previous evening, ok, earlier that morning, but he never noticed the weather, and not because he was always far beyond drunk when this happened, and it happened often. It wasn’t the holly, or the bugbite, or the slow, slobbery residue of gimlets and sugar cubes that engulfed his taste buds that came as a shock, but rather the smell of sweaty feet that had accumulated under the blanket that miraculously covered the majority of his frame. “I hate it when she does that.” Not sure if he actually fostered the energy to mumble this or if the words just blazed under his eyelids, he rolled back over, kicked off the sweat-stained blanket, flatulated, and returned to his slumber, sure that he had at least an hour before the jogging couples or the beat cops would size him up.