Supper TIme

“Supper Time”

 

Whilst coaxing edamame beans into the colander,

Dusting them with paprika,

I hummed the liebestod while plundering pods

For edible emeralds, for our little supper.

 

I found you in the billards room,

embraced by weathered, leathered arms,

Stroking your week’s worth of stuble (like they were Socrates’s whiskers).

The evening paper pasted stories upon your face

 

As your pipe simpered on.

I peeked behind the paper

To shriek and find you

caramel creamed and pastry flaked!

 

“Ceci n’est pas un éclair!” you sputterd

as I charged at you with the flaming

apricots I had toasted for dessert

(believing they were your favorite).

 

Furious, you frugged to the parlor—

But you should have done the jerk—

As you zipped up that bargain sweater found

in women’s clearance: buit in support for your backless soul.

 

“Is this about the skort I wore to your office party?

I told you: it was a matter of principle.”

But down the cobble-stone path you pranced,

in your imitation elf shoes,

 

like Cortez commanding the new world

to speak God damn Spanish!

As you drill-sawed my heart with each stoic step.

I miraged an isthmus between us…

 

knew no éclair could canal between us…

but before I could play the doormat, kow-tow in sugary surrender:

you spun—More proud and pomp than a vampire squid

of the wall-street breed—insistent on going en pointe:

 

“Truth be told: I have a penchant for chicken of the fried denomination!”

So to my kale and kumquats I retreated: to relinquish myself from your brass ring.

 

 

 

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