Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.117.8.41

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

My feet are under the table,
white linen is beneath the blue and white plates,
the cutlery is sparklingly clean
I have been up all night polishing it.

Whatever the answer is 
I need to always be a question mark.
It’s good to be a guest of myself.
I will sit on a seat near the door
least I need to go out and in again.

There is nothing questionable here.
I go to the kitchen
to set fire to a cloud of fruit flies.
The cloud hovers simmering for a while
then bursts into flames.
A phoenix does not arise, but the cloud takes a seat 
planting its burnt vapors under the table board
while staring intently left where I had just left.
Teacups tremble.

When I come back to the dining room
the burnt cloud of fruit flies
morphs into a beautiful woman.
Her pink lobster tail
is tucked coquettishly under her right arm.
I may have to spray her with Lysol
or eat her before she attracts more flies,
but the butter has not melted yet.

Now I have questions,
now certain answers must be observed and served
from a silver engraved tureen.
Pea green pepper soup pours into open mouths,
mouths I have previously allotted place-names to,
cards printed in gold leaf
in front of pockets of air and folded like unspent money.

Any questions must wait now
until the dormouse wakes up to ask what time it is.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required