Somehow,
probably because
I was lost
wading ankle deep
in the variety of ways
to make a sock monkey
on Pinterest,
I missed it,
and unknowingly
made a salad
when all the world
was celebrating
National Grilled Cheese Day,
and that is so sad
because I do have cheese,
and butter,
and bread,
and the born in the Midwest
Green Bay Packer Loving
fan-ability
that should have
made me fry
that puppy
ankle deep
in bacon.
Scraping
chunking
spewing
pumpkin guts
clinging, dripping
from your fingernails
flinging them onto yesterday’s
news.
Wrapping it up
silver kissing style
twisting the story
tossing into the trash
your hand strangling
the paperboy’s
efforts.
Sitting at home
with your money
living in his pocket
he is scraping
cheese
from under
his tired toenails
flinging them onto yesterday’s
news.
The time between
August and September,
unaware of an impending threat,
falls quickly
swishing soft
with sounds of rustling leaves,
while my money
crackling dry
unfolds in the seasonal shopping
of back to school.
That hundred dollar bill,
an endangered alien species,
protected from the enemy
by my careful oscillation
of my arms to and fro
and up and down,
was tucked safely in my purse
until it blew away too fast,
sucked into a cash register vortex.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.
I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.
And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.
I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.
Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.
Adrenaline rush of air flies by you at 80 mph
filling your lungs with a vital breath of speed,
humming with traffic as you weave through it.
Somewhere down the road the strands of asphalt
will test your ability to navigate the curves
ending with loose gravel and a taste of bitter bark.
Trapped in the confines of my sealed up car
I curse your lack of respect for the living,
no thought of your loved one answering the door.
Strangers will tell her how the race finished,
holding her gently, giving no comfort,
gasping for breath when she goes down.
Suffering no broken bones, no dirt in her mouth to spit,
her lips will close without any words, humming a bitter tune.
Years will not fly by fast enough, her pain dying so slow.
Cheese hardens with holes throughout
hidden until the knife goes through.
So don’t be surprised by what you find
when prodding me for answers.
I have empty places you cannot fill
that time has sealed up tight.
So don’t be surprised by who I am
when the outside’s gone to mold.
Pour us each a glass of wine
and taste a palette cleanser.
Slowly savor my new found flavor,
becoming what you’ve hungered for.
Don’t befriend me, an avid poet,
who listens with attention
to all your worldly woes,
prodding you with jellybeans,
and creamy coffee chocolate,
all the while writing down
new juicy poem prompts.
My subtle cookie tossing
of your secret private words
spreads far beyond my kitchen
out into the blog-o-sphere
where hungry readers can indulge,
calories be damned.
I am a scandalous master
of woes and words and worlds,
’cause I can mix it with the best
and serve it hot to you.
One smart cookie.