_Scene: Sonia draws the line_
"Divorce me," she said, "and buy a richer woman."
"Frustrate you more," he replied.
"I've succeeded," she answered back.
"You've been rice hawker, beer parlor..."
"Stop this nonsense!"
Startled and amused by her distruption.
"Is it taxi driving you're supposed to be doing?"
"Look at yourself first."
"Do you have savings? Can you pay bills?"
"You're mad!"
"Don't call me mad.
Less than a month," she said.
"Then be gone."
So many flavours to choose from,
My licking tongue can't wait on,
Toppings applied, build it high,
My taste buds about to cry,
To my mouth, it'll soon be gone.
I watched as the little spider hung from a silken thread
Ready to begin construction of its intricate web
With each weave of silk the web slowly took shape
A web from which insects would seldom escape
With its web all completed it took center stage
And waited for an insect to blindly engage
Then a butterfly came fluttering into view
But eluded the web as it skillfully flew
Then came a fly who had no such luck
The spider reeled it in and with a nip and a tuck
Began its soupy feast... .yuck
The spider finished its meal and went back to wait
For another insect to land on his plate
Into his parlour he invites them all
Insects of all sizes, big and small
If any get caught in its silky snare
Eaten they will be, right then and there
I went to the ice cream parlour
At one of our seaside resorts
And I wanted an ice cream
But, well, there were allsorts
“Knickerbocker glory sir?”
The ice cream mans retorts
“Yes I do enjoy a certain amount
Of freedom in these shorts”
Infinitesimal, wooden, musty cages
Beautiful, multifarious birds
Silently weep and perch
Alienated from the healthy, broad environment
To satiate human desires
Materialized their freedom
A sort of sadism inflicted
Miserable existence
Their movement, delight, happiness trapped
No tree, no nest, no lakes
Howsoever gorgeous be the cage
Yet cannot replace the natural, green habitat
No joy, no chirp, no song
For wanderings long
But a pestered survival
To hopes, cheer, pleasure burial.
A feeble old woman lives down the hall,
we chat on occasion.
I indulge her constant kvetching of youthful occupants invasion,
since this erstwhile hotel's trendy loft conversion.
Crook'd finger and conspiratory whisper
lure me to door ajar.
She tells of the latest spat between two male lovers living next door;
bitter pursed lips mouth, gays, a lifestyle she abhors.
Clad in wool coat, in August, faded scarf
hiding brittle grey hair,
gnarly fingers clutch at worn collar, scent of mothballs hangs in thick air;
up-turned nose revering fragrant yesteryears.
Deaf, my gaze is drawn within the open loft
where a grand piano,
sits, awash, in vast rays of sun spilling in from unshielded windows;
age-yellowed keys playing notes she no longer knows.
Miss Catherine, are you divorcee or spinster,
or a mournful widow?
Did melodies seep from beneath steel door and waft through open windows,
while in lovers arms, you danced in moonlit shadows?
Torches passed, some girl down the hall, fancies me
'an old maid with her cats',
eye to peephole, ear to door listening to youth go quickly past;
curious if in my day, rakishly I danced.
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