I was at Resto Depot today for
lunch. I had a miso noodle salad
with an Avacado scooped out with two
scoops of crunchy veggie or no veggie
balls . they had exquisite seasoning too.
There was much lettuce ,the noodles were cooked.
There was dried crisp tasty noodles ,thank you.
I drank a glass of water .This dish is
a subtle smooth aged single malt whiskey,
Hard to eat slowly -I ate it quickly.
Desert was a cup of cantaloup scoops .
Happiness is the circle of glad folk,
I sat with six in all three to me spoke.
First folk were two ladies a nice chat had,
Next dude ignored me I didn’t feel bad.
A dad and son next they ordered a meal ,
They ate quickly: lunch is a sweet deal .
One was a doctor offered free rub down,
I said I live in the far part of town.
Our chat was nice he got up and split,
Noise is an irritable dish : I sit.
Solitude is a silent street.3 bare seats
I was musing when to write my conceits.
Resto Depot a hip place to hang out
For the in-crowd to be without a doubt.
Could not write my poem -my time was up
I looked at my watch ;my ride picked me up .
As the tenderizing tenderloin rub his meat.
The antibiotics circulated through his veins
ran down beneath his feet. The taste is off
but memorizing my mouth, as I swallow his
flavors I began to have doubts.
Marinating over night with different flavors,
as he leaves the fridge I lay to rest. I
overshadowed the instructions to meat the end,
I grab the brush to serenade the mood.
I rub down the kinks.
He's at his peak, as the aroma sets in; my mouth
waters as his meats slides In. The juices are
warm as I expected the timer has one second.
I climax as the time vibrates to the
end I enjoy every bite until the very end.
I tenderize that meat well that day.
The Life of a War Horse
The horses I remember as a child were very big working horses,
not nervous like race horses who need a rub down and soft words
before racing. I remember specially a giant tanned coloured horse
left behind after the Nazi occupiers, it was a victim of war.
The Nazi leaders who were fonder of animals than people, just like
the British, had given the horse an animal iron cross, and had its
flanked and neck stroked by Herman Goering no less; but it was
never taken in by this barmy philosophy.
Alas, the horse belonged to a survivor in Holland, it was shipped to
the Middle East ploughing soil that hitherto had been tilled, by grey
donkeys, ploughing shallow sandy soil. Than it happened having been
exposed to so many confusing ideologies the horse bolted and kicked
the farmer to death. There was a court case it was proven the horse
was racially biased and sentenced to become legitimate dog food.
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