Delilah ….

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Delilah she comes slowly dripping down into her own

little puddle again.  Old percolator we call her.

Sometimes we aren’t very nice I guess, but she doesn’t

seem to mind.  Said she only left the grounds behind

her — or above  her — or wherever it is she goes.

Drip, drip, drip.  “A purer blend,” she says.  Of what

I’d like to know.  “Refined,” she says,  “I know who I

am now.”    Maybe, I say to myself.  All I know is that her

puddle still feels the same, and it still splashes itself into

a hundred tiny droplets that can’t find their way home

and dry up in the sun, when anybody steps on it real hard.

And if you only step gentle and soft-like, well, it only soaks

your foot.  And I never did like wet feet.  I think that’s why

Duckfoot bothers me so much sometimes.  All he ever does

is go around stepping in people’s puddles and getting his

feet wet.  We were going to put a stop to it awhile ago, not being

able to see much sense in it, but those in the puddles didn’t seem

to mind so we let it go by.  As long as he doesn’t hurt anybody I guess

it’s OK.  Sometimes though, that danmed Duckfoot’ll get into one

of his outrages over some silly thing or other go out ‘puddle-stomping’

(as he calls it) with a vengeance.  Then half the day all you hear is SssssPLASH,

ssssPLasH, ssssPPPPlASH!.  I just can’t sleep through noise like that.  I don’t know how

those in the puddles can stand it.  Well, I guess there’s a purpose to it all somwhere.

You won’t catch me sayin it though. ……






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