she said she was singing words,
but i misheard that as slinging words,
and liked it better,
could just see the tiny word diner,
the waitresses plopping down plates of poetry for breakfast.
the lunch specials would change each weekday;
monday being monday, they let the verbs wait, serving up nouns instead.
tuesday will be small plates of adjectives - you only need a few.
by wednesday you are ready for meaty novels full of meaning
to be discussed on thursday over limerick desserts with coffee.
friday is romance novels.
poetry is reserved for saturday,
for late lingering breakfasts and champagne brunches;
the taste of the words will stay on your tongue until sunday,
when the diner is closed and you have to cook breakfast yourself.
you've gathered the ingredients all week without thinking.
open the refrigerator door and see.
stir with love and serve with strawberries.
for napowrimo, 2013
30 poems in 30 days