The poet tells us
that he understands
there will be refreshments
served when he shuts up.
He asks us to form two lines,
in an orderly fashion,
and to be aware of those around us,
as they may have special dietary
or culinary needs.
He makes it sound as though
we are the fortunate ones, and they,
the less.
He says that the
woman behind us
might be diabetic and that while
she will avoid the vanilla black
raspberry paté
and very likely the foie gras parfait,
we should strive to ensure
there is
adequate mango
salsa for her carrot-dipping
experience.
He is too delicate
to enunciate what we
all are thinking, that the last time
something like this occurred,
the time his
father,
also a monotone voice,
also proud of his
mispronunciations,
pulled the same all-night buffet
charade,
some knucklehead
towards the back of line two
had a bit
of a breakdown
over the status of the fresh fruit
presentation as a simile for the then current
circumstances and before anyone could
really grasp
what this guy
was actually proposing, decorum
had
been broken and replaced by flying
kiwi particles
and slap-
happy papaya chunks flung
(like a
moonlit craving)
against the timorous tautly-adorned
torso of a war widow and an errant stalk
of zucchini lodged
in the feathered band
of a sassy porkpie worn by a soldier
deemed unfit for duty;
in the general chaos that ensued,
with
the metaphorists defending
their ground behind the
carved ice punch bowl
against the fruit and
vegetable-tossing
similists who had cornered
the analogists under
the limburger-laden
table – well, needless to say,
there were
complaints heaped
later at the way the buffet was
handled,
some, naturally,
speaking out against the lack of
security
while others railed
that the entire incident was extremely
avoidable if only security had not stepped
in and
started cracking melons
over certain close readers' noggins.
It is so difficult to
please
everyone when no one entertains
the
notion of pleasing you,
so hard to strew compassion
along your
path when it is laced
with the spoilt seeds of those gone
before. I want to look
out for the spinster’s affinity
for
avocado but I do love
pimento as much as the next
palomino
in line. A bunch
of mixed breeds in a conflict over
figs,
this is where we dissolve.
I will take my time applying the brie
to the date spread,
knowing that the
likelihood
of the poet ever shutting up
is remote,
is remote,
at best,
to say
to say
the least.
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