Occasionally, when a fit hits me and I reorganize my home office; I come across long buried memorabilia.
This time is was a wire ringed notebook of poems I wrote just before leaving for my stint in the Marine Corps, during same and a few years after.
What was I thinking? With what was I thinking, (Don’t go there!)
Who was this self-importantly bloated bit of pure pomposity? Certainly not me… Can’t deny it. It was handwritten in my once readable handwriting. Dribble, Dribble, double-Dribble.
The temptation is to burn it, or shred it first and then burn it.
Did I? Of course not. I put it back in its layer, like a bone, for some future archeologist to find and THEN shred and burn as they mumble to themselves, “Dribble, Dribble, double-Dribble.”
The moral here is to never clean the office again. Who knows what might be find in this box or that?
