Mid-meal, I think of when
she made me noodles—iced
beef broth with julienne
cucumber, radish, sliced

Bang. Then buzz. Then clang. Then doom.
A marching band in a tin cocoon.
The table slides. My breath retreats.
My muscles lock. My heart skips beats.
Don’t move, they said. I swore, I won’t,
which means, of course—I might. I don’t.

Appetizers

The Seven Dwarves
A classic. Dwarves are deep-fried in ale batter

Fairy Godmother Wings
Spicy and hot, request boned or boneless.

So, here’s my plan:
let’s fight all wars with old men now.
At the point diplomacy breaks down,
let a battlefield be agreed on,
and liberally strewn with porta-potties.

You are kingpin to my comfort,
my non-back-and-leg pain, my sleep
with deep dreams.
I’m sorry, it’s only when you get out of line that I notice you.