Photo: Holger Luckerath

The night it blew up

To us it was a tempest in a teapot, no big deal, spit in the wind. A kerfuffle, if you will.

That fella, mad as a hatter, off his rocker, moon howler, who was bat shit crazy.

Jaywalking with his hunk of shit, crammed tight, crosswalk wide, piled high as heaven and stacked up to gawd

Every trinket, bauble, morsel of cruft, dollop of detritus straight from the dump

On his way from a third base effort, a second chance, toward his last resort

When the clothesline, the left tackle, rolling thunder, the Oscar the grouch on wheels

smashed, crashed, plowed, gadzooked him and his world into orbit

skids, screeches, gasps, trashes, bones, splats

Mister, missus, aunties and neighbors peeped, rubber-necked, gawked, wide-eyed the scene

To us it was a tempest in a teapot, no big deal, spit in the wind

But that fella had his bell rung, head spun, planets collide, sun extinguished — the night it blew up.



J. Curtis is writer and product developer living in the East Bay. He’s always hatching another story idea and balancing a dozen interesting projects at work and home.

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