the silver service she bought
should nerve-wrack insurers
all the bric-a-brac secured
behind lasers under glass
and she’s spastic
about their placement
in case miss manners
should notice, taking notes
rote down about where
they go by the napkins,
and the animals
wrapped in napkins
snort and sniff
and slap down their truffles,
their ruffles and frills
adorning their fat,
their curly cue tails secured
in their panties, and panting
for more and their forks
adorned with fat
as the smorgasbord
on silver platters
reaches critical mass
and stuffed until
they’re roughly obscene
belching and ready
to toast the queen of the ball
for her tasteful settings
then letting farts in stalls
we’re all gonna smell
on Monday,
when the setting is cleared
and the linen is cleaned
and the platters are glassed
coveted and held
before the mass and blessed
secured and fast,
and passed like the grail
before the rabble.


c.2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

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