Headlines
On Sunday, firefighters came to the rescue
of a soufflé. Reportedly, the
ladies were glad, for their
make-up was starting to melt. One even lost a false lash. It fell
into the Earl Grey, the favored blend,
at the luncheon that morning.
The frail, yet heavily-accessorized party guests said
it was the flambé. It was the their
luck that one of the men come to rescue
was a sous chef on the side.
As a man in uniform, he recognized
the cake. The detective noticed
something too- a martini glass
lying cold, at the scene of the crime.
The detective’s notes read probable cause: dishware
thrown aimlessly by anorexic housewife,
surmised, could not hold liquor
or 2 olives and made the tumble,
which fueled the flame,
which caught the soufflé.
I wish I had named it.
Something unassuming,
and personable, like
Max or Casper.
I hate to think of it now
with someone else,
their silent companionship.
I see them
on picnics, her holding
a flashing knife
to a pale toast, spreading
on luscious caviar.
Their bodies, laying out
in the prickly grass,
for ants to explore.
The bike helping
to carry the groceries.
Her worrying
when its paint chips.
The awkward moment
at the front door-
the bike’s wondering
whether it will be invited in
for the night.
Escalators
Pregnant women like the escalators.
When they ride them, they don't appear handicapped.
Everyone is carrying the burden of new life.
All are so far along,
they synchronously give birth at the landing.
Just think how a few steps
would quickly deliver them to the top.
Finally, I could get on with my day.
What’s a proper chip?
"This is not a proper chip!", my niece exclaimed,
squinting fiercely
at the lame golden disc
about to crack in her tight grip.
Her saucy Brit tongue
clipped the end of the word.
I guess she was expecting
a limp Western fry.
I bet that is exactly how Pizarro looked
mounting the banks
of the Aborigines' land.
I can imagine Adolf looking the same;
his square mustache swallowing a savory
Hamantashen, crumbs catching,
to be unceremoniously licked off.
I heard the preacher with the megaphone
had a similar expression on Saturday,
standing on the corner of 5th and 6th,
the "blasphemous souls" looking back at him,
not noticing the resemblance.
I was told it was the same with the Queen,
who struck her princess
on the nose with a powder brush.
Sally had the look, when she surreptitiously passed me
the folded paper in class
pointing out the new boy's "weird tick".
The look must be catching. Word is out.
I noticed it on everyone in the hall,
the faces directed,
but this time at me.
I felt for my chip.
With the metallic seal broken,
all the air let out,
and a stale fate,
there was no going back in the bag.
xo,
LA
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