His Cold Thin Self

A magic fork in Lou’s Cafe
found time to take my breath away.
(He seemed intently sure all right
  to find time ‘tween each lunchtime bite.)

At first he acted like forks do
as I slid him into my stew
to pierce a carrot tempting me
as well as unsuspecting pea.

But on the second pass I felt
His Cold Thin Self was lest than svelt.
The feeling in my hand was like
the heaviness of railroad spike.

His Cold Thin Self stayed the same size
(I scanned him with my skeptic’s eyes,)
yet he was heavy in my hand
(a morphing hard to understand.)

Then all at once his weight went south
and I again put him to mouth.
Strange magic made my taste buds shout
as stew turned into sauerkraut!

I looked Thin Self right in the tine
(beside myself in cafe dine)
and sensed His Cold was having fun
with me, my stew and buttered bun

because I dropped him on my plate
yet clinking did not resonate
but bitten bun arose like steam
(I was convinced this was a dream.)

I put a napkin on His Cold
(my breathing labored--hard to hold.)
Self had no want with staying hid;
he creased the kin and out he slid.

With flashing lights the spoon and knife
on tablecloth became alive
and followed His Cold Self in stride
as I, nonplussed, remained wide-eyed.

Then in the end, while grabbing Thin,
I saw something that made me grin.
This magic fork had lots of pull:
marked on the bill was, Paid in Full.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-7-15