A Food Group Laments

Lowly carb, the peasant of foods,

maligned by every diet book around,

I lie on the plate pasty and eschewed,

as praises for veg and protein abound.

While I am modest, homey comfort fare,

guys at the processing plant sap my fiber,

and now the slim misses pass me sans a care,

for fish, greens and organic cauliflower.

All I've tried to do without flourish is provide

good nourishment for pennies on the dollar,

and for my pains they've sent me down the slide

to the bowels of the food pyramid cellar.

Why I am the object of such foody hate?

After all, I did not supersize myself,

or insist I be bathed in hot transfat,

or altered to extend my life on shelf.

I pray for the day I am rehabilitated

like my friend the egg who was ostracized

for years because he was cholesterol-tainted,

now back from the gulag, by Rachel Ray lionized.

If your hips are broad, get to the Bow-Flex, gyrate,

Your abdomen protrudes? Do some crunches!

Stop blaming the humble carbohydrate

for those gargantuan guilty lunches.

My Boston Standup Stapler #2

My rail is empty, empty, empty,

a void in the pit of me, hollowed out,

cored like a cooking apple.

A silo without a missile.

A chamber without a cartridge.

A cannon without a circus clown.

 

I cannot fulfill my purpose, purpose, purpose,

the only function I am true for, made for.

Like a retired steel worker I stand

on the ground, shoulders eroded,

squinting up at the unfinished skyscraper.

He and I need work to be. He. Me.

 

I burn to be of use, use, use,

to bite the wind with steel incisors,

to pincer like a horseman with iron thighs,

to stamp, fold and mutilate. Volumes.

To embrace the neat typed innocent pages

like an editor, sanguine stylus poised.

 

I want you to fill me, fill me, fill me

up to the gills where I breathe the air of action.

Feed me the blind rapture of accomplishment,

twine your pulsing fingers round me and squeeze!

Lift me high and use me hard. Oh, yes!

I am ready. Take me. Make me. Stake me.

My Boston Standup Stapler

Still and sleek you wait at attention,

Glistening black as a whale gone deep,

Common as beans.

 

But amid the paper clips, you tower, Rhodes Colossus,

Or Emma's. Legs arched, a Gateway to tidiness.

Head on, a Dubai skyscraper.

 

Your spine beckons with caterpillar segments,

My fingers caress your torso, then squeeze.

Inch worm motion.

 

You bite. Ka Cha. Ka Cha.

Paper-punching bureaucrat. Spring-loaded toady.

Tasting the pulp of Shakespeare. IRS forms.

 

Yet your narrow metallic threads unite in ordinary design,

Declaration, gospel, play, symphony, and oration. Poem.

Clasping the universe.

A Writer's Sonnet

Left Brain Right Brain

My office is a hideaway of sorts.
I go there to create lit when I can.
To steal a chunk of time from pending chores,
Crossing to left brain, twists of plot to plan.
But interruptions follow me inside,
Which make it hard to hunker down and work,
And when the day is done I can't abide
The paltry pile of output for my book.
I tell myself I had to pay that bill,
I toss and turn and wonder why I pro-
Crastinate? Failed procedure, quill or will?
But should I write by night like E. A. Poe?
Dawn comes. I rise and, fresh, seek out my muse.
My right brain grasps the fact 'tis I who chose.

Come Back

Come Back (after Dorothy Parker)

A mild and most bewildered little shade

Paces my darkened office all alone,

Stares in disbelief at the rug where he

Died, oh so suddenly last Tuesday morn,

Gone with one exhale as I composed with

My back to him, his head fell on his paws.

I typed away as he ebbed away. Soft.

Praying was my first thought when I turned. Spoke

Buddy? Buddy. Buddy! Then I knelt down,

The first mourning tears already falling

Touching the already heavy form. Eyes

Sinking back away from me. Please don't go!

I held him close. Done it a thousand times.

The loving heart that beat, "I'll never leave

You. Ever." Was still. Still, I hoped we'd be

Together years from now. Assumption dashed.

Opened myself to grief and pain. Only

Through this sad journey did I come to terms,

Accepting. Then I found that I could see

Him. His lanky silhouette in the night.

Buddy you kept your word! You have not left.

Earthy angel, soiled paws and frowzy ears

No Standard Poodle you, my dear. Noble

Friend. You must go, you know. To claim your wings.

All dogs go to heaven it is said. But

Before you fly, please promise that you'll come

Back. For me. When it is time. Okay?

Back. To lead bewildered, weary me. Home.