Stuck Inside

I am stuck inside this inside-out dress. My arms are straight up in the air, like I am trying to surrender but no one’s available to claim me captive. I am starting to panic. I think someone must call the fire department. The dispatcher will alert them over the new satellite radio. The firemen will abruptly drop their forks. The cookies that Gus’s mom made last week (originally intended for cousin Sara’s birthday before they remembered Cousin Sara was allergic to nut butter) will spend another day in the Tupperware, uneaten.

I knew I should have unzipped this dress before trying to lift it over my head. Now the firemen will have to come. I want them to at least slide down the pole, but the new fire station is minimalist style since they left their old brutish building and moved downtown by the banks. The charm is gone. The cookies are becoming stale. This may be a good thing. The firemen will remember why they signed up for this job in the first place. Saving cats from trees, women from—Oh no.

Now, I seem to have gotten loose. This won’t be the actual time the firemen come, will it? Less-than-fresh cookies will be eaten. Charm, elusive as ever.