Does surrender always taste like chicken?
I sigh, standing in my kitchen
in this old pink robe,
the one with oatmeal dried upon it.
I used to have visions of surrender
tasting like the finest chocolates
plucked from a golden box.
But I have to pick someone else’s
locks and eat their slim pickins’
like something from Dickens.
But wait. There’s something in
my pocket besides the crumpled tissue.
My heart is at issue.
I feel excited instead of blighted.
I feel like Tina Turner on the
I feel like Proud Mary and that’s
What is going on here?
I’ve been so long here
at the microwave holding
the empty foil.
That is all according to Hoyle.
The mystery meat is mine to eat.
The leftovers are better the next day.
I am free to play.
It looks like a good day!
Second best is just the rest
I need on which to feed.
God jumps for joy as I
employ my simple gratitude
for just being myself.
There’s more on the shelf!
I will never run out of me.
That speaks to glee.
In spite of thinking I wanted
to win, I actually love to place.
I smile with my original face.