A Likely Story
I once joined the furies
In their claw-footed bathtub, blowing
Pink, strawberry scented bubbles between
Their asparagus-lined teeth. The bottle
Said ‘No Tears’, but I cried like an armadillo
With a deflated balloon wrapped about its waist.
I’ve had a grown waffle
Erupt from the drain after its previous owner
Flushed it down the toilet the week before
– a breakfast ever forgotten, never avenged.
Songs flowed like syrup from its checkered boxes
And lingered there like the Antarctic sun:
“Pancakes are inferior,
Cooked without a grid.
A waffle is superior,
Just ask any kid…”
Like a dog eating math homework,
The furies devoured the waffle in the middle
Of its second verse, wiping their greasy snake
Tongues on a French fried hairnet,
Which they then placed atop my head,
The hot oil running into my teary eyes
Like steaming manticore’s urine.
I asked my leave thereafter, and politely
Slapped each fury on the foamy snout,
As is customary, and I was whisked
Away in a cloud of rare orangutan gnats
Ooohing and aaahing and waving their six furry appendages.
When I removed the hairnet, I noticed a few shreds
Of waffle flesh like soggy pencil shavings
And I smiled.