Christmas Night Police Blotter Haiku

A few months ago our central heating went south, which it has done from time to time.  The repairman, who’s serviced our furnace on and off for 20 years, fixed the thing.  And then he made his pronouncement.

“This model has a rated life of 23 to 25 years, and you’re at 24.  It might make it through another winter, but if I were you I’d start saving up for a new unit.”

And then of course we forgot everything until the furnace went south again, three days before Christmas.  The HVAC company sent a different guy this time, and he made no dire prognostication; just held up a badly corroded igniter and said, “Here’s you problem.”  And he replaced it.  But if the other principal parts look even half that bad, this puppy’s on life support.  I called the HVAC people and made appointment for a nice man to come out and tell us how many thousands of dollars that this is going to cost us.  At least it’s a union shop.

It’s Christmas night, and the heater’s working away merrily; which is good, because the temperature plummeted today and tonight’s low is basically at freezing.  AI’ve spent a cozy evening at the dining room table with Rhumba, pounding out police blotter haiku while she knits sample stitch patterns for my new sweater.  My new sweater has been in the works for something approaching a decade; at this point she may be planning the Great Pullover of Ghiza.

Such is the blinding pace of life in the Boomer/Rhumba household, especially when we have the week off.  And it’s good, because frankly it’s difficult to write good haiku when your mind’s already on the affairs of the next day.  And this week, it’s not.

So I enjoyed doing this.  And I’m posting them here instead of at, although they’ll end up there eventually.  Hope you enjoy them.  Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, a Joyous Solstice.  Don’t eat or drink more than you actually enjoy.  And drop a line; getting a little echoey around here lately.

Last seen at the beach,
wearing camp colors and
hefting a chainsaw.

They’d like to break up.
But each of them holds ransom
the other’s key ring.

“Pay obeisance to
the King of Nicaragua!
And… stand me to a meal?”

Too much coke! he groaned.
Lying on the PCH,
wearing only shorts.

Was it news to him
that the cheap iPad he’d bought
from “some guy” was hot?

His whole neighborhood
can hear the porn movies that
the deaf man watches.

Others can get elbowed
shooting hoops but no, not him.
He’s calling the cops.

Two taps on the glass?
So she thought, after midnight,
alone in her bed.

He refused to leave
unless the bank gave him access
to his wife’s account.

He thought it was love.
She didn’t, and passed her card
to another man.






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