serve me up

Photo by Ulysse Pointcheval on Unsplash

scorched throat
soft tissue sun-dried on a toasted baguette
serve me up,
sir
stir and stir until i’m ready to be
sold to the highest-paying customer, or anyone who’ll take
someone as
sickened as this…
so salty, so
soliloquous
singing to myself from the rooftop, foot dangling over the
sunset that’s far too
saturated for these mice-chewed eyes of mine to
see,
set the hounds on me
set the oven for 350 degrees
slice and slice until i’m
something delicious,
something worth
serving.

spring beckons with a fist around my
sauteed heart,
something in the air,
something in me,
something
straining to pitch me into the rubbage,
speaking in tantalizing cadences of
sinking ships, of last meals and violin strings under
starlit skies, and the bone-cold sea beneath, waiting…
stew is the
swirl of my thoughts, a gutter
swill
steeping and
simmering, undrinkable tea, drunk all the same
stick me on a platter, then
skewer me, i say
spill my guts on the
stained tablecloth,
sit and eat.