Tonight's Poet Corner: Fish Sandwich
Fish Sandwich
by Belinda Roddie
Cornucupias of conversations over an
awkward fish sandwich,
the kind that leaves you hovering over a
white basin with your guts around the edges.
You wash down the bad taste with beer,
but the beer gets dry in your mouth,
and the stranger across from you keeps
blabbing, blabbing, blabbing
on and on and on
about the implications of war taxes or
dehydration of neurological philosophy
or something blurred in your nutrients-deprived
cortex. Never you mind questioning. Just
sip the water provided - leave the
stein on the left corner of the table.
When you're done projectile spewing,
you can
hoist him up with a rope and
tie his throat to the ceiling fan,
watching as he whips with the summer wind,
eyes as scaly as the salmon.
by Belinda Roddie
Cornucupias of conversations over an
awkward fish sandwich,
the kind that leaves you hovering over a
white basin with your guts around the edges.
You wash down the bad taste with beer,
but the beer gets dry in your mouth,
and the stranger across from you keeps
blabbing, blabbing, blabbing
on and on and on
about the implications of war taxes or
dehydration of neurological philosophy
or something blurred in your nutrients-deprived
cortex. Never you mind questioning. Just
sip the water provided - leave the
stein on the left corner of the table.
When you're done projectile spewing,
you can
hoist him up with a rope and
tie his throat to the ceiling fan,
watching as he whips with the summer wind,
eyes as scaly as the salmon.
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