To a New Dishwasher
by MC Poetry
When you are old
They will throw you out
And leave you to die
As your kin now lies.
See him, there?
On the curb, rusted and finished
With all that wood
In such questionable taste.
But now you are young
So think not of such things.
With so much life ahead
Let nothing keep you
From your sworn duty—
To be loaded, yes!
Full of
Lightly-encrusted tableware,
Stuffed with soap,
Turned on
And left alone.
Then, in Act II,
Your wards are both
Clean and not clean
Until their states are resolved
With a flick of your handle.
It may be years before your senses fail
But one day the cat will be dead
And the box will be discarded.
There are few things less meaningful
Than the death of a dishwasher.
Apple Diaries
by Verse A. Phile
The day, 27th, of bristling fall when many a soft skin break away to reveal eruptingly ripe interiors.
Had a Honey Crisp selection today; such tastes as the moniker implies. Made my way along the zig-zaggy currents of the modern cityscape, i.e., Midwestern American as opposed to Central European (huz-zah!), so, that for detailed expositions, my readers shall none lack. To the market was my making, taking a route rather familiar to my being, alongside the motorcades’ winged insects and the generosities of youth.
Spoke market heathen to mine:
“Forsooth you fine gentlemanly this day yonder?”
And to thine my reply:
“Eloquate not mine ears with thine barbarous tongue! For heaven’s sake — mine well-spent time was not meant to be taken to lunch by such clumbersome words of working-class teeth!”
Said he:
“You choose not to transact the fruit of my labors?”
And me:
“Fool! Privy to bite your slovenly words! I am indeed here for your Crisps of Golden lore!”
“Aye, one dollar for such.”
“Take, along with my disgust!”
Post-haste, I raise soft scarlet roundness to mouth. Aghast! A quick, tender crunch belies a sustained sweetness. Would that this fruit swell to melon size, such was its blessed divinations on my oral taste-formers. Arms raised, eyes rolling up into skull, I spin round! round! round! the cobblestone path of my surroundings, up! up! up! the far-crying zones of applicious bliss.
Such were a tale that even famed Snow White or the Lady Eve would re-double her apple actions, even after knowing their fixed punishments, were it to be a Honey Crisp experience.
Bring forth the apple wagons and toss the crab apples aside! Of apple surveys, we have a clear victor! Hurrah to the Crisps! The Golden Honey Crisps!
MC Poetry sez:
- So I see. The game plan is "let's call a blackout and embarrass ourselves on national tv".
Verse A. Phile sez:
- I got 99 poems, but the misogynistic ain't one.