Cooling My Heels

Gazing deep into my fridge. It’s
Not that hot, low triple digits,
Probably less hot than hell.
I think I’m dealing with it well,
But heat defeats my appetite;
Might end up standing here all night.


And Now You Know

Mayonnaise is made from eggs
That fall from just above hens’ legs
Through boxes waiting slightly south
To oiled jars and then my mouth


Fritters are my favorite fruit.
I keep a couple in my suit
In case I’m asked to meet the queen.
(You diplomats know what I mean.)
They’re why God made those little green
Ingredients of which we sing
In Indiana’s summer rain.
(Ask your parents to explain.)
Post-lunch slump? Pre-dinner jitters?
Stave ’em off with healthy fritters!
Have one or two or three on me!
(I’ll square it with her majesty.)
Fritters fit with any diet.
Here’s one from my glove box. Try it!
You’ll become a convert, too,
‘Cause fritter-fruit is good for you.

I’ll Check Back In 20

Pathetic is the word that springs
To mind when I inspect the things
That shelter in my Frigidaire.
It’s nearly Hubbard-cupboard bare,
Discounting several chunks of cheese;
A cure for some unknown disease
In incubation on a heel
Of sourdough; an orange peel,
Unbroken, yet distressingly
Concave in spots convexity
Might rightly be expected; and,
For reasons passing understanding,
One pristine green head of lettuce,
None of which is going to get us
Nearer that of which the nut
Is this: I ought to eat, but what?

Foot Ball

The penguin took my meatball
But I won’t have him arrested.
He only wants to play with it,
As he himself’s attested.
He’s practicing for fatherhood:
He keeps it on his feet
For warmth and its protection.
After practice, then I’ll eat.