My prim neighborhood’s light green lawns and dark green shrubbery
are sorely lacking in exciting color.
I long to see the rainbow surprises of newborn flowers
as I walk down my street on a spring day.
So now, each and every predawn morning,
I stealthily sow future marigolds and zinnias.
Gene Newman wrote this story.
It is garbage pickup day in Cambridge.
The empty bins are dancing in the street, rolling hither and yon, blown by the blustery gusts of wind, wind that has driven unimpeded from the icy Canadian tundra.
Neighbor corrals bin for neighbor; trash is secured house by house; the community thrives.
Martin Evans is an escapee from academia where he thrived for 35 years. He now potters around Cambridge, so he really didn’t escape academia!
“Whoa, stop right there, bud.”
“I BEG YOUR PARDON.”
“You’ve got to wait your turn. Adolescence and young adulthood only just passed by. Middle age is up next.”
“BUT THERE’S ROOM TO FIT MY BICYCLE IN RIGHT THERE.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but in the parade of life, Death rides last.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @GreatTrollKing.