Sometimes she’s an angel. At other times a witch. There is no way to know when her personae’s going to switch. When an angel, she’s gregarious, obedient and sexy, but during her more bitchy days, she’s silent, dark and hexy. No x-ray can determine which one she’s going to be. There is no test to indicate which one she’s going to see when she wakes up each morning and stumbles to the mirror to see which one she’ll be today–the feared one or the dearer. I’m always the first one to see what side of her will win, for each day the face she chooses is the one that I’ll be in!
I very nearly missed out on her graceful zigzag gig beneath my bougainvillea, suspended from a twig.
Behold the nimble spider, spinning out her floss determined that no insect will turn out to be her loss.
See her web’s tenacity, holding fast her prey— those delicious visitors who rarely get away.
She sucks out their elixirs with minimal delay, having guests for dinner every single day.
This park is overrated. It is not my zone of choice. One cannot be heard here unless you raise your voice. The signs are not well-written. They’re curt and brash and rude. One gets pebbles in one’s shoes when fashionably shoed. Little dogs are walked here that irritate my nose, and I don’t approve of the scanty jogging clothes. If the Queen were walking here, I think she would be shocked, for not one single passer-by is stockinged, gloved and frocked! All-in-all, a walk here is not what it once was.
I only visit here because the ice cream vendor does!
In the hierarchy of buffets, spaghetti is the king
no matter what competing dishes they may bring
to grace the laden, groaning boards: rich soups and shrimp and cheeses.
They advocate for salads, but somehow no Caesar pleases
half as much as pasta, well-laden with rich sauce:
ground beef, basil and parmesan, tinged with just a toss
of fennel and oregano. It simply has no peer.
We gobble it with cabernet, chianti or a beer.
We leave the smorgasbord serene, replete and full and sated.
Our emptiness has been fulfilled, our appetites abated.
No hunger pangs outlast thin noodles topped with smashed tomatoes.
Spaghetti beats out hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes.
It beats out cured Virginia ham. It beats filet mignon.
It beats twice-baked potatoes and things put thereupon.
I’m sorely tempted by ice cream and pastries, cookies, tarts,
but such things aren’t exclusive of main courses that are starts.
A plate piled with spaghetti deserves a proper ending.
Just plan when loading up your plate. Dessert is also pending!
One ungainly orphan elephant, wandering and uncertain of where his journey’s leading him, comes upon a curtain of mist that rises from the plain, shimmering, evanescent. The stars now muted overhead, the moon a fuzzy crescent. He splits the curtain, comes upon a lone and lost impala split off from the herd during some wild stampeding gala. They form a duo and plod on, each looking for a herd. Such an unlikely couple. Impossibly absurd. And yet they struck a certain chord, each one with the other. She was the sister that he lacked, and he her missing brother. One thing led to another. She fit him like a glove, and before they knew it, the two were fast in love. When the baby came, it looked a bit like a nyala, a bit like a rhinoceros––an elephantiala!!
They’re pious and as pure as snow viewed from any angle. They do not cuss or drink or swear. They have no sins to wrangle. Untempted by debauchery, they have no ills to speak of. It’s a sanctimonious ardor that they reek of. The patron saint they’ve mounted atop an oil pump waiting to be canonized, of course, is Donald Trump!
We saw her in the movies. Her name was in the news. This pulchritudinous starlet was hogging all the views on youtube and on other social media sites— the drinking and missed call times, the drugs and barroom fights. Until America’s darling became a laughing stock— a harried aging party girl for tabloids to mock. Another crumbling idol turned to dust by fame. Another aging loser of the movie game.