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Narrative piece about a dissatisfied wife, a philandering husband and a sassy cephalopod. |
Pots and pans, rattling, banging A gritty symphony of metal clanging That she commands Outside the window, that vast city sky Catches her bloodshot, life-weary eye Down the fire escape Oh, that she could fly! From this fire, this burnt out life Soap suds squish and splash between her fingers Bringing her back on track, to the task That still lingers A ritual she hates...preparing the dinner Fuchsia frock and fruit-print apron her armor Cleavers and chopping blocks her tools of the trade She grabs the pulpy creature, all wrapped up in plastic His culinary choices, always so dramatic But this was his favorite, a creature from beneath A deep-sea delicacy to stuff between his teeth Onto the chopping block For a gory gutting In her mind she sees his face instead Of this poor creature, all dried up and dead That ne’er-do-well husband of hers, Fred With his running around and running up debts Just then a pulpy limb wraps around her slim, bony hand Shocking her straight out of angry wife-land Next came a shriek and a desire to flee But the tightly-wrapped tentacle would not let her be She picked up a cleaver, held it high in the air And brought it down with a wide-eyed stare The octopus, however was too quick for that He darted away, zig-zagged this way and that She chased him around, like a woman possessed Tripping and tipping things over, making quite a mess Finally the octopus crept back to the counter He had grown tired and his mood was now sour From being the victim of a relentless pursuit By a frazzled homemaker with the strength of a brute She too was exhausted, but managed to stake One last claim for the seafood meal she’d soon make With hand ever-steady, and aim ever-ready She gripped his large head And my, was it heavy! She plopped him down in a sea of hot water But thought for a spell, about the hell She was subjecting this little soul to How would she feel, if in that boiling water It was not an octopus, but her son or her daughter She poured out the water and saved the poor thing Then glanced down at the octopus smiling I’ll serve up a meal he won’t soon forget That weasel, when he comes home, will be met With a truly exotic platter, one to quickly shatter His booze-battered heart once and for all And so it did happen that Fred came back home From an affair with a girl who lived down the road Just one of many he had thrown in her face Now was the time to strike him at the base His heart was so weak from all the years of rough living That when he saw his meal move, he felt his blood chilling He fell to the ground, as dead as can be While his wife simply smiled and looked on with glee Raised a fruity cocktail toasting her new fishy friend Who had helped years of suffering come to an end. |