Kooky Lucy Frost (30)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (30)"
   
   The crisp foliage of Fall had fallen, crunching beneath Kooky Lucy's feet as they pounded the asphalt ballet, her jogging, slowly, with a baby bump--walking swiftly would be wiser, as anthropological records indicate this was the way of archaic man; nevertheless, fuel to the internal toddler, already ignited with a sense of consciousness blooming, eating baby crackers, very crispy, within her hardly used womb, and the Bills of Buffalo had already won a few games, though her eyes were on the Browns; plus, Cleveland, her loyal pal, at her sneakers scurrying throughout the suburban sprawl, dynamite blowing here and there, America ever expanding, forgetting to control intercourse with prayer, crafting a deluge of delinquents, college like the credit card scams of the 80's and 90's, you not even able to rent VHS Tapes without one, and the poor man has a trade, like Christ, or mops up fecal matter, and so happy to hug his children, for him--the six pack is never cold, and reality television has not yet happened, for he has a retroactive reflection of radio and crystals, being off the grid of Facebook, and in the Heart of Christ, living not to serve a dollar, but only as James T. Kirk can't believe we're still using money; however, Kooky Lucy Frost had no regrets, loving Pap, Conor, Cleveland, her growing child locked within a graced womb, and mostly God, not minding the bizarre scenarios of blood types and agendas aged and outdated, for honesty and a path less traveled offers a fresh romp and roll for a junkyard dog with a tick collar, serving him best with fresh grass to mark his turf, Mother Earth letting him know, She can absorb it, for he is rooted in a Mother's sandals, them, as clean as a virginal whistle, never wheezing, but trumpeting the prophecy of a time terrific, when there is no change, and the rainbow's promise is returned eternal; as a result, Lucy smiled inside herself, and at the other precious life she housed within.