He just hangs over that plate,
about to put the fork in the pantry
when a loathsome crouton grins and bares its fangs.
You wouldn’t think it was much of a man-eater,
blood had never touched its lips. Poor Chip. Poor poor Chip.
If only he hadn’t forgotten where the forks go.
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Author: Aidan Badinger
Wharved.com
I am a poet.
I write poems.
Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.
View all posts by Aidan Badinger
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