Maybe There’s a Meaning
The schedule should be every six months,
Simple, routine, nothing new.
But for me it shrinks to three—
“Your teeth are bad,” the doctor says,
“Come often, it’s better for you.”
Others pay fifty every half-year,
I pay one-fifty every season.
Hmm… strange, right?
But maybe inside all this inconvenience
There’s a hidden little reason.
Maybe the doctor likes me—
laughs at my own fantasy—
Maybe it’s just a silly dream,
A harmless wish floating free.
Wkwkwkkw…
Just a joke, just a thought,
But who knows?
Life loves its secret plots.
No comments:
Post a Comment