Wednesday, January 22, 2014

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,
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.

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

Miss Douglas, you're on probation for wishing again


mary angela douglas 22 january 2014