It's The Raspberry Ripple Through The Ice-Creamed Stories

it's the raspberry ripple through the ice-creamed stories

tower on pasteled tower (and with whipped cream)

that half keeps me alive 

it's the picture book surprise

of a world still unfolding;

of imagination in living colours

inside, still spreading its fans, gold sequined

rainbow sunrise sherbeted.

spumoni triple play oops! Neapolitan I

meant to say while

rabbiting through the Easter grass

in the dead of winter

slipping past the deadlines.

my taffeta pockets cramfull of salted nuts

and wedding mints after the receptions

to supplement my larder.

God knows I need to.

but I'm at work and not supposed to do this 

while I'm keying things in.

how would they write me up?

let's think about this some more.

maybe they'll say:

your daydreams are off the [flow] chart

[and it's starting to flow like lava now

toward my tiny happy hut in the path of it,

multicoloured!]

too retro to be believed or annotated

ever in the thirty-ringed employee handbook

you should have memorized by now

or in the Moses brought them down from the mountain

unwritten rules we'll never tell you unless it's too late

and anyway, we just made them up on the spot for you

you you, you anamolie (of course, they can't spell it

that's what they hired me for)

because anyone with a professional demeanor

and half a spitsworth of leadership skill-sets

and diva-tasking

has got to know better than this.

you're letting us all down.

ALL?

(clomp. clomp. here they come; this is it)

Miss Douglas, you're on probation for wishing again

-30-

mary angela douglas 22 january 2014