THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

It’s 0233. I’m sitting here with a bowl of pork fried rice. I like pork fried rice. I like Chinese hot mustard. I like Chinese hot mustard in my pork fried rice. When I bought my pork fried rice tonight I picked up several packages of Chinese hot mustard. My wife put my Chinese hot mustard packages away, someplace, unknown to me. I’m depressed. I cannot find my Chinese hot mustard packages that I got with my pork fried rice which I bought tonight. Suffice it to say it would be foolish of me to wake my wife to find out what she did with my Chinese hot mustard packages. So, I guess I’ll eat my pork fried rice without my Chinese hot mustard because it’s 0233 in the morning and waking the person who put away my little packages of mustard at this time of the night could be hazardous and extremely unwise. So, I’ll just suffer.