Pickled Guilt

Leaving work for home, my job stress still fizzled. The long drive included bratty rain drizzle and windshield blades needing my constant fiddle. My stress spittled as rush hour drizzle-tripled. Some driver's fingers waved from their hand’s middle but I thought how my nights were far from simple with dinner and other children committals. I must stop and tend the food list I’d scribbled so I gave my gearshift some tension wiggles. Once at grocer’s I saw my food list whittled, placed bags in car without a single wrinkle, then backed out of parking space like a missile … … so … my stressed ear’s received a crash transmittal while in rear mirror my eye’s saw boots wiggle, noted they were stilettos so not nimble yet back and forth they wriggled on legs riddled before boots, wrinkles and white hair sunk crippled. Without quibble I gave cops a phone jiggle, ran to my victim and knelt by her middle. Her eyes were open but she seemed struck simple so I sympathized and smiled with full dimples while thinking this could become civil dribble ending in a court where lawyers would quibble. Yes, stress had pressed me inside guilty’s pickle. ... CayCay February 20, 2020