Some Food for Thought

Morning. The sun is a fried egg in a pastel

spider. Were it not for the fact that the world,

today, is a summer meal, one might not

eat for a month. Seaweed: a garnishment for

the salad beach. Tongue of an ocean running

gluttonously through teeth seemingly

reefs, ruining while renewing what it would chew.

And Time, damn him, Time: the sadistic chef. He

whose pendulum spatula flips our egg

over easy, never nicking the yolk, but ...,

never truly serving it either. You'd think

it would burn. It does. Ogle it once:

it will turn the whites of your eyes to quicksilver.

Let us not eat for a month. That old cook with

a grimace of ice will not make gourmands

of gourmets. We can roast him first on the spit

of our minds. Imagination may make him

howl with heat in his own oven, just

as Hansel and Gretel cindered the witch in her

cookie house. We will savor, not salivate.

But the hostel-mistress sea works her lewd

jowls with too much good humor, professional

of her lies. She and the chef run a public

house. They know too well the public taste.