Sunday, December 18, 2016

In the Soup

Derisively regarding me as if (again!) they couldn’t fathom
why I’ve done what I have done to what sustains the waning
entity of me, my lumbering triumvirate of guardians,

my ruling oligarchy who arrive just when the year gets cold
to school the arrant fool I always seem to be, now barged
into the calm confines of predawn dream to steam in more

than usual disgruntlement. As customarily, one napped
(I guessed it was his turn) – though come to think, it always
seems to be the pink one who’s asleep – I’ve never heard him

speak. However, the remaining two large yellow piles of fellow
always do. They intoned together like an angry chorus:
“This time you have really sprung a leak.” I had succumbed,

they’d come to tell me, to the most egregious pride of all:
the ontological!  “Shmoo! What in hell’s got into you?
You stride around as if you’d found the answer to the test –

like you’re as clear as consommé. But you’re as thick
as bouillabaisse.” I was in the soup. They’d never made
the case against me so abrupt. It even woke the pink one up.


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