I shall therefore conclude with a proposal that your watchmen be instructed,
as they go on their rounds, to call out every night, half-past twelve,
“Beware of the East India Company.”

The cold night of December saw Indians abroad
      with white features.
The Masons did not meet that night, they were:
      “Involved with tea.”
Leaning upon the dark, cloaked in feathers
      and deerskins.
The rumblings of war distant troubled the hearts
      of the sleeping.
Lady Liberty’s sons petitioned her cause, making
      a saltwater brew.
“Hutchinson made us do it,” they explained, wiping the leaves
      from their feet.
When in the course of human events, a strong voice is heard,
      to rouse even the weak,
keep your Chinese potions, East India,
      we prefer Arabica.

Your body is like a birch tree:
young, thin, frail, supple,
sinewy.
Your voice is like a clarinet:
low, soft, smooth, sensual,
long-winded.
Your love is like an elephant:
slow, patient, awkward,
never-forgetting.

The only certainties in life are death and taxes
and change under couch cushions.
Mark has succeeded much better, his bounty
Four-fifty in change, no trifle.
Jean-Martin is short by one-fifty.
They both head over to McDonalds.
Dollar menu: the student’s delight.

Choices, decisions, rumbling stomachs.
Mark heeds his with greater voracity, orders
a bit high for his budget. Leaves with fifty in change,
and four burgers.

Jean-Martin is weighing his options heavily.
Stomach or wallet? He opts for the wallet,
walks away with two burgers and an extra buck to boot.
Enough to satisfy.

The homeless man out on the street named Bob
holds out his hand for merely a trifle:
“A sandwich,” he desires, in simplest terms.
Jean-Martin contributes his dollar to the cause,
Mark keeps his change,

and is still hungry.

Writhing, wriggling in the joyous absence
of a cruel, heartless sun.
Stretching languidly over cool pavement,
Drinking in the moisture surrounding.
Slurping. slimy, sluggish.

Panicking, racing (as fast as possible),
Searching for shelter from the heat
of the cruel heartless sun,
cruel heartless steps.
Slowing, stopping, drained.

Tiptoeing through the graveyard,
Stepping carefully among the bodies,
Pitying the careless clitellata,
Decaying on the pyre of a sidewalk.
Pecking beaks devouring the remains.

Cheese, cheese! O glorious cheese!
I can’t eat you for you make me gassy,
But when I see you my eyes become glassy,
and I forget flatulence with ease.
O cheese!

Cheese, cheese! O marvelous cheese!
Muenster and cheddar and jack,
One bite and I cannot turn back.
Pass the Beano if you please.
More cheese!

Cheese, cheese! I miss you dear cheese!
Since the fateful day the good doctor said
“Ma’am sadly never must you be fed
milk, ice cream, or dairy, nor cheese.”
Poor cheese!

Cheese, cheese! Understand cheese,
My stomach can never digest you,
the enzymes, they don’t really like you,
and I must respond to their pleas.
Bye cheese…

There was no beach.
Nothing but rock down to the sea,
full of crags and caves ripe for exploring.
The waves crashed against the stone –
those covered in seaweed danced.
Baby crabs and shrimp, mollusks and barnacles,
hidden by patches of seaweed
frolicked in tide pools.
The sand colored rocks were rubbed smooth,
holes and grooves etched into them by the sea.
A fence loosely clung to the ground, leaning
into the wind in places, swaying like the dune grass.
The rocks dropped like cliffs, ending sharply
and sending my eyes down into the waves.
And I was always afraid the foghorn
would sound in broad daylight to warn
me away from the edge.
I pushed my luck anyway, until mom sounded
her alarm. We’d pile into the car, feet gritty,
and watch until we couldn’t see the spray
above the rocky horizon.