fizzle

Dear Bartlett's Sherbet Fountain,

My sweet, I hungrily foamed at the bit (not o-honey) when we first met. You were my goldenrod glucose rod, the lone beacon at the bottom of a plainclothes sack of gift candy. The yellow blaze of your outer wrapper illumed sugarshock shores of fantasy -- that liminal strip where Ponce de Leonian jets of froth seek Polaris like the spoutings of some Moby Dick made of God's own divinity. I imagined the passionate tumble of your slim licorice rein within a funnelling whorl of "fizzy sherbet." I knew the lace would emerge from the dune freckled with a talc-whisper of candydust, and I could nearly taste that final, perfect union of lip-to-whip.

But it turns out you were just a stale rope in a tube of baking powder. Cavity-emptor, etc. I can't suck it up.

Pucker,
WP

fell on 2006-03-12 at 5:33 p.m.

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