"oh! is that an apple,
in the stuffing?
how unique..."
you say pushing around,
the buttered brown clump
of crazy, on your plate,
drowning the hapless lump
in gravy.
between forkfuls of increasing pleasure,
you point out:
the pecans, toasted?
the celery, too salty?
the carrot, too much crunch?
the bread crumbs, oh those are good,
there is silence for a few seconds,
while you take the time to swallow.
"Is that sage?"
you continue, right where you left out,
a peculiar unflattering expression on your face,
forgetting for a moment
your in public, smacking your
lips together loudly,
"No... maybe
its marjoram."
you slam more into your face,
looking up at the chandelier
as if written there are the answers,
revealed in the light from above.
"No... It's sage. It has that fuzzy,
undertone of,"
you stop, choking,
one eyebrow goes astray,
I wonder, I pray,
pray harder,
but you cough,
into your white linen napkin,
politely,
and then resume chewing your words
lost between the heapfuls,
of battered down indulgence,
when you burp,
point the fork at me,
with a empty plate question on your face,
I stop praying.
I reach into my rhinestone D.A.D.D.Y
lettered leather purse, and pull out,
my rocket launcher,
"IT'S (insert explicative) STUFFING!"
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