Bulls-Eye

“Last night, I dreamt I was born in a box of cookies,” said Miles the packrat, who looked like a six inch long hotdog wrapped in a pink bun. He wasn’t in a bun. In fact, he had crawled into a size 14-sock, and worked on chewing the toe out.

“A box of cookies,” said Harold the ghost, polishing the top of his head with a pink handkerchief. His wife, Lilith, claimed that pink made people suicidal, and she always gave Harold pink gifts: shirts, socks, hats, shorts, bandanas, and of course, handkerchiefs.

Harold carefully put his head back on his shoulders, and then wiggled it back and forth to ensure it wouldn’t fall off. Convinced he had it on square, he stood up and did a jig across the floor.

             “I think someone wants some cookies.”

“What I really want,” said Miles, “is a good cup of tea. Boiled for three minutes, then poured on top of the tea bag with one rounded teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk, not cream.”

Harold guffawed, which almost caused his head to fall off. He held it in place with his left hand. The light came through the broken window, and the diamond on his finger, his only adornment, sparkled.

“Harold,” Miles said, enunciating each and every consonant and vowel, “We could text message Lenny, and ask him for the name of a reputable repair man. You know, get the faucet fixed and brace up these floors. And the windows. It’s nice having a breeze in the summer, but I understand that snow flies in the winter, hmmm?”

“I thought we were discussing cookies,” Harold said.

“I know it’s fairly warm now,” Miles said, ignoring Harold’s interruption, “but I’m looking at the big picture. I don’t think this pink sock is going to keep me warm in the winter. And I want a hot cup of tea.”

Harold sighed, which sounded like a scream of a banshee. “Miles, Miles, Miles,” Harold said. “Winter is months away.”

“I’m going to text message our friend, Lenny, hmm? It won’t hurt to get an estimate, Harold. Besides, you told me that your initial plan was to fix this cabin up for the lovely Lilith. What’s stopping you from completing your plan? And don’t you think you’ll be a more productive writer if your humble abode is cozy and warm?”

“Lilith,” Harold sighed. “Her smile, a rainbow, her eyes, the pot of gold.”

“That’s lovely,” Miles said. “If only our new equipment had arrived. And I had a cup of tea, well, we might have the start of a truly excellent poem, hmm.”

Miles looked up at Harold, hoping his words had found their mark. Bulls-eye.

“Ok, Miles. Text Lenny and find a repairman. You’ll get your cup of tea.”

“Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said, a joyous grin on his packrat mouth.