Poems

The protoplasm, gelatinous and fluid;
appears as though it has a cerebellum.
It should be dead, the scorching heat should do it,
but it seems fine. That opening, a velum?

That pattern on its side, it seems embroidered.
Rectangular, and are these really crosses?
Our team reviewed the sites and reconnoitered,
if it’s a pet, we cannot find its bosses.

We found one truly interesting parchment,
An avalanche, and what looks like a budget.
Not sure just what it meant, not my department.
Suit safely zippered, I reach out to touch it.

A whirlwind tale, and all true to a T.
And that’s how I became an amputee.

The Hudson River Club, September 10th
I must confess, I love the pumpkin soup.
If memory serves right, at any length…
The waiter pays attention to our group –
no, not quite wolves of Wall St., maybe pups --
the sun is setting over flashy yachts.
The river flows, as does the wine.  Our cups
are never empty.  As my buddy spots
some master of the universe nearby,
I signal “check”.  The waiter reappears.
We might just be the last ones.  Buddy’s high.
The night is young: coke, wine, a bunch of beers…
I text my boss: tomorrow, I’ll be late.
She says: I’ll handle it, I’m in at eight.


Author notes: https://www.chefdb.com/pl/4366/Hudson-River-Club-New-York This is an entirely true story.