Glib's Ordeal

Gabby V. Glib, having been summarily challenged by Silent Sam
that she could not refrain from talking for twenty four hours,
picked up the gauntlet like a harvester sucks up grain.
“You’ll never do it,” Sam rattled off, the utterance
of so many words parching his throat and swelling his tongue.
Gabby glowed puce in the cheeks, made a face like fresh lemon,
and harrumphed, “O yeah, Sam!  We’ll see about that!”
“The bet is on!”

And the bet was steak dinner at Talk-of-the-Town,
an innovative new place where you have to make a case for a table.
The times were set from noon till noon,
with designated listeners within earshot of Gabby at all times,
a kind of eerie congress attuned to Glib.

Her face contorted, deep furrows of agony
ran the length of countenance, huge drops of sweat fell
from crinkled forehead and button nose.
It was twelve fifteen.
Fifteen minutes, Gabby thought--so this is how time stops!
Gangs of immigrants picked at her vocal chords,
a massive Beluga whale tugged at her tongue,
the jaws of life pried her mandible.
Gabby was one hot-footed urge looking down
at the inviting mist of a Blue Ridge waterfall. 

Glib opened bottles of fingernail polish and sniffed.
She held onto vines overlapping outcrops of rock so as not to drop.
To talk, or not to talk?  That is the question, Glib thought. 
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows...
Perchance to scream!
Think of other things, let not the thought of talk obsess you so!
Think of Sam’s smugness- pledge to the allegiance of silence.

An ice age waited for the next, great rivers
found new ways to course from plains to open sea.
Sand grains wore away the greatest monuments of man.
On that first day, Silent Sam was treated to dinner at Talk-of-the-Town
while others waited pending outcomes of required orations.
Sam smiled smugly as they were seated almost at once,
Glib having made the case.

37 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
4-28-13