Where’s my Book?
A Cliche
Where’s my Book?
The indispensable one — the Chat GPT of my writing life — found in a free exchange bookshelf in town — quickly becoming my go to must?
I need to rhyme “Spiney” — find a new way to say, “Throat” — consider alternatives to “Gusty” — muse on the word “meat”. (Stagnant water description — really?)
Where is my book?
It wasn’t with me long.
Just as it opened my lexicon world and I began to believe, it vanished.
After hours of fruitless hunting, over and over, in the usual places, it has never been found…
A woman I know lost her husband the same way.
After years of comfortable marriage, he went out for a walk and never came back.
She searched in all the usual places:
His naked study; the river (quiver, liver — whither thither?) — the Bar…
Where is my man?
He was with me for long and, just entering a blessed third age, he vanished.
After months of fruitless calling, over and over, he has never been found…
Where is my sex drive?
The one that never got enough — the one that kept me riding high like a Martini ad –
Anytime, anywhere — on the table on the stair…
Where is my sex drive — it was always there — something to count on, keep hot — repair.
Now vanished in memory — difficult to grasp and,
after nights of fruitless searching, over and over in the usual places
(bath nights, oyster suppers, oiled thongs)
it has never been found…
