Here's a rather drab occasional poem in honor of emergecy late-night dates with sleeping babe in tow. Benjamin, of course, finished his in 45 minutes, whilst I agonized for a day and a half. (I am not so good at villanelles). So here it is,
A Villanelle for the Only Restaurant Open at 9:30pm Monday Night
You knew I'd always spurned
dark walls of panelled wood
and pots of plastic ferns,
and that my stomach churned
at the Anglo-Asian food
you knew I'd always spurned.
A waitress--speech shhlurred--
bade us shheet where stood
a pot of plastic ferns.
We ordered egg rolls--burned
and tasting like cinnamon could.
(Who knew I'd always spurned?)
Our Zodiak, now blurred
by soup, forecasts good
for pots of plastic ferns.
The Cock and Monkey turn
to find their fortunes bundled
with things I'd always spurned--
like pots of plastic ferns.