Muffins

An adequate result of salt and heat
Gives us these muffins, rounder than the globe —
A sort of rough oval — and when we probe,
Demanding answers, looking at our feet
And hoping no one notices how sweet
The pan still is, she licks at my earlobe,
And I am devastated. I am Job,
Disturbed by boils, afraid, white as a sheet.

She's just a dog, a sullen, careless bitch
Looking for lost crumbs, even on my ear,
And whining as I try to make it clear
That muffins like these are too sweet, too rich,
For her, my loving pet. She starts to twitch,
Remembering the pizza from last year.

My Hard Expression

At first, my hard expression, thus inspected,
Showed a flat refusal to allow
The demon actor to take one more bow.
He wasn’t red, or even red-complected,
Just a little pink. His eyes deflected
Our concern. I made a solemn vow,
Complete with “ever thus” and “thee” and “thou
Among the crew,” which left the crew dejected.

My wife deplored my attitude. She laughed,
But I was scared, and tried to make her see
That he would bring damnation, wantonly,
Upon the whole production, weakly staffed
By lovelorn students without art or craft,
But she stood firm there, for calamity.

Someone Else

I felt no shame, just emptiness. You left
Complaining that I didn’t make things right,
A folly I absorbed for weeks, then light
Began to dawn: I needn’t feel bereft,
My life in ruins, my open heart cleft.
You wanted someone else. It was a slight,
Not criticism. Your disdain that night
Was only empty braggadocio, theft.

Don’t blame me for your own deficiencies.
A woman who pretends that true love dies,
Admits impediments to summer skies
And honest hearts, has fear and a deep freeze
In her attractive breast. Your calumnies
Define your soul, a revelry of lies.

For Your Crimes

I will not kill with kindness. For your crimes
I’ll slit you open with a butcher’s knife,
Or use a stun gun six or seven times,
A painful way to end a victim’s life.
But you’re no victim: I’ll just squeeze you till
You can’t breathe. Maybe I’ll use a garrotte,
Or feed you poison; when you’ve had your fill
I’ll drown you in the bath. Or maybe not —
A shotgun doesn’t need a careful aim,
And neither does a well-wielded crowbar
Or cricket bat. You know, I like this game,
Considering my method. Oh! A car!
I’ll run you over with a moving van,
A riding mower! I’ll do what I can.