HUNGRY POEM
The poem can’t wait for you to come to the table. He is so hungry, this poem,
he has tied the tablecloth around his neck for a bib. He raps his heavy silver spoon
in a tight fist, pocking the varnished mahogany clean through the white linen.
This poem is so hungry. He has already eaten Grandma’s homemade honey mustard
right out of its little crystal bowl on the relish tray. He screws the top off the pepper
shaker and knocks it back like whiskey neat, and lets out a tremendous sneeze. With
a crimp in one eye, he growls like Popeye: “I wants some MO!” And forgets to say please.
This poem is so hungry. He pours the salt into his pocket, because his uncle told him:
“Sprinkle it on th’ tail, that’s how you catch ’em.” The poem squirms in his seat, seems
like he’s been waiting his whole life for you, he drools at the thought of you laid out
like Thanksgiving Christmas and Easter dinner all rolled into one continuous feast:
Plate after plate of you, all slathered in giblet gravy and cranberry sauce, studded
with sweet pickles and olives, down to the end of appetite, a final slice of chest pie
with real whipped cream tucked into the last corner of a tight belly. This poem is a cannibal:
He wants to eat you up, ’til he is pregnant with every name you can think of. And he promises,
like a good boy, to chew with his mouth closed.
Poetry Notes