#younglady #southstreet #younglust #literarydreams




That young lady on South Street is etched into my memory—her form, her figure, her eyes, her lips, her fishnet stockings and jet black hair.  It’s all there and I know what I would like to do but really doubt the possibility of it ever coming to pass.


Those things just don’t happen to guys like me.  We don’t get the girl or have any luck.  It’s just a game I play on a nice day in February when I should have gone to the Art Museum and soaked up on Marcel Duchamp and other great artists.

Instead, I just sat around at home thinking about that young lady who will probably never cross my path again and probably wouldn’t give me the time of day if she did.


I read old copies of National Geographic and watch reruns of “Rescue From Gilligan’s Island.” It really has me starting to wonder if the literary dreams are still in effect.


Some say, “You’re a nice guy but” and that don’t matter anymore.  What they say and what I say isn’t necessarily what is and that’s what really counts.