Gina Rained On My Parade Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Gina rained on my parade

I studied writing so it is not strange if I
Address the writers; Hemingway: "Start with real"
Orwell who wanted…they both wrote stories,
Stories are spheres; we write of an angle
That is what story telling is so…
Listen to Gina's, today…
She too, was a globe
And we saw a part
A line, linear
In mind…
And I listen to the radio
I hear an anchor I do not know
Story of Gina rains on my parade…
She had ordered food
Must be delivered
I opened the file
I had accepted
In Sunny-side
"Coffee"
A cup; that is all
The servers…two women in black…giggle
The owner: "Our business is strange! "
I hate her…hate Gina without even knowing
I know only one side; there will be no tips
Sure cannot be; not for a cup of coffee
I take sides with the three; angry
It takes an hour driving
Going, coming
Some new stories shape in my mind…
Feel obliged...'Delivery; Writing'
Buzzer, open, elevator, I climb.
With each inhale, exhale, I swear
I see her standing at the door
Gorgeous, great, my kind
I like such descent looking women;
She, smiling, makes me blush
I feel the bareness of the apartment; hear her:
"Work in Real State; asked breakfast, coffee they forgot…"
Is she bluffing? A new page for my storytelling
Yes we are the gods, and the creators...
Angles are plenty.