A Damn Shame

He preferred his brains roasted
with a glass of fine vouvray
every evening at seven sharp.
No later, no sooner, or
he wouldn’t know when to eat.
He had an idea, but only that,
at mealtime he needed a bell
to be rung and rung again.
But yesterday Denis (the man
who rings the bell) had to
pick up his kid from the hospital
and abandoned his post.
There were no bells.
The whole meal was ruined.
It was a damn shame.


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.

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