.
Although, no one is there."
"What other kind could there be," inquired he
Or are our presence everywhere?"
"I am no cook, but let us have dinner, fix yourself a plate.
There is a scale in the corner by that blue china cabinet door."
"But I am poor, with nothing of worth or even a pocket of which to speak."
"Don't bother yourself with that, Mr. Urchin Crow of Clay."
"It is only just today and better spoon than late."
"But thou art dark, whilst I so pale, wherefore and whom may sate?"
"Although no one is here," she made the kitchen disappear.
"Back in the card boards, on Dante sidewalks."
(sewn into two buttonholes and spread among the backtalk)
Sidereal carpet slippers, wearing her dress of disarray,
"You're aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa fair kind of cool word read."
Then she did a pirouette sort of ballet stage spin
Wound the winter tight a cold, cold night dancing on a pin
A stack of book, no second look and nothing more left to say . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1264 times
Written on 2016-01-23 at 15:39
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Kitchen Discourse
"You're my kind of fool," she said,Although, no one is there."
"What other kind could there be," inquired he
Or are our presence everywhere?"
"I am no cook, but let us have dinner, fix yourself a plate.
There is a scale in the corner by that blue china cabinet door."
"But I am poor, with nothing of worth or even a pocket of which to speak."
"Don't bother yourself with that, Mr. Urchin Crow of Clay."
"It is only just today and better spoon than late."
"But thou art dark, whilst I so pale, wherefore and whom may sate?"
"Although no one is here," she made the kitchen disappear.
"Back in the card boards, on Dante sidewalks."
(sewn into two buttonholes and spread among the backtalk)
Sidereal carpet slippers, wearing her dress of disarray,
"You're aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa fair kind of cool word read."
Then she did a pirouette sort of ballet stage spin
Wound the winter tight a cold, cold night dancing on a pin
A stack of book, no second look and nothing more left to say . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1264 times
Written on 2016-01-23 at 15:39
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text