foodstuffs

My old refrigerator & I have parted ways. Oh the memories of my roomy magic box of icy air. I kept this poem in there. Now that I've got a halfling fridge, I keep the poem over the sink. Unlike the poem next to it, this one lacks lamination. Alas, it's taken a beating. Yet there it remains.

Eating Poetry

by Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.