Lunch Will Be Served
Just when you think that you are
on the road to success and the
medications have calmed down
your wife, plus a big sale at
the foodstore means that you
can finally buy your cat a
decent meal—that's when
you get the news that it's time
to stare calamity in the face
And what a face: it comes
at you like a speeding pie
It has three eyes. It was created
by an overdose of nuclear
radiation. Its cunning knows
no bounds. Meaning, now
you are going to pay for something
you did in a past life, or didn't
do or should have thought
about doing. If you even rated
a past life. If not, then these are
just the normal ups and downs
Which do you think is worse?
Anyway. A procession of ghosts
will carry your pencil box
down to the office from which
you will never be allowed
to retire. Lunch will be served,
but all you can expect is
a bag of blood and transfat:
In other words, to rub it in,
even the cat will get a better deal
Meanwhile, the universe remains
an incomprehensible wheel of
grave attraction. Fish, swans,
and archers lie in each other's
starry embrace while dark particles
have been driving by your house
all day in their neutrino cars,
in a hurry to do a job that will
never be revealed to us. And in
some versions of this story,
the cat has magical powers
Oh my God, you say. I had no idea
Well, now you do. In fact,
in some versions of this story,
beings of faith and light
are in the kitchen, dancing
with your wife. Then your
friends arrive, still lugging
around their own dilemmas,
hoping you will feed them
from the common pot, like
in the old days. And as tired
as you are, you think you can
"Lunch Will Be Served" by Eleanor Lerman, from The Sensual World ReEmerges. © Sarabande Books, 2010.
Karmann Ghia
Listen,
broken little century
driving around in your Karmann Ghia
like all the rock and rollers,
the queer disciples who
helped me with my homework
in 1968
I am not done with you
High as a gilded lily,
slinking around with your bedroom eyes
fixed on Mexico as the
best place to die
I have the evidence, now,
that you were possessed of
too much hope
Your clothes were too beautiful;
you were, yourself, too beautiful
Gay blades indeed: that's a
gut punch, little darling
Little age of pain
So what were you doing,
drinking the last hours away
in a vicious bar, wearing your
summer suit and a panama hat?
Setting sail already, hmm?
With your suitcase
buying a ticket on a passing cloud
Were you just
waiting to see what would happen?
Well, this is what happened
At least you could have left me
the keys to the car
--Published in Book of Matches, Issue 3, September 2021