Archive
01/08/09 - (1)
A New World Order
Finally, after perhaps twenty-five-odd years, more or less, Of having the exact same breakfast, seven days a week, At the same old café, at the very same intersection,
You decided, after weighty consultation with your soul, To deviate from your comforting routine, vary your menu, That doing so might bring an illuminating lift to your spirit.
You stunned the waitresses, cook Bobby, and the dishwasher, Who knew your three egg-whites, dry whole-wheat toast, Side dish of steamed onions and mushrooms, carafe of decaf
Better than they knew the first and last names Of their husbands'/wives' illicit others, Indeed better than they knew their own bowel movements.
More than stunned, they were shocked, floored, flummoxed, Not certain whether to laugh or gag, guffaw or retch, For the order you gave Rozella, with a perfectly straight face:
"Today, I'd like a five-Missouri-water-moccasin-egg omelet, Stuffed with diced slices of scented skunk-breast almandine, Kangaroo toast points, and a pot of Parisian-press platypus piss."
Whatever had come over you, it was exhilarating, numinous. Could it be that this was the start of something grand, in your life, A transformational, existential out-of-body experience?
But after almost forty-five minutes of no Rozella, no breakfast, You grew impatient, suspect, irate; After all, you were hungry, starving, famished, enervated.
When Rozella finally did arrive, Without your snake, skunk, kangaroo, and platypus dishes, Rather the same egg whites, mushrooms, onions, toast, and decaf,
Your heart sank, palpably, viscerally, into your gut, drowned. "Crestfallen" could hardly capture your disappointment. Rozella, her mascara smeared with crocodile tears, temporized,
"I did my best, Lester. Honest. I promise. Really and truly. Moccasin eggs, yes. Kangaroo toast, yes. Platypus piss, yes. But Bobby called all over the city, and there ain't no skunk."
01/08/09 - (1)
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