Calling for Mutton

March marches away on a Devil's Day

Cloud and mist stick. Smothery smeeth hangs thick on the world.
False Spring. Devil’s Dew.
Went out in the brew, sickle-cycling my swath to work.
Sweet and short – pulled a one-hour shift.
One shifty devil’s hour had a whole day’s
moil and mishap.
Missed my headphone set, must borrow another’s
ear-wax.
There I sat, lax, stuck to purgatory call (Big Apple Bawl)
under cataracts of blatherspitten New-Yoik-blab.
Bombastic blubbering.
Ten minutes to quit,
Call Takeover beckons; declined it, inclining to my own,
heeded my own
headwires.
Seconds to punch-out, in comes another
incoming call,
taken over by another
Call-Takeover victim.
I fled the building under pelting rain
inside a black sack, plastic tack, I’d pinched from a break-room can.
I came home to Commune,
met a Matterhorn of dishes, an undainty duty,
skyhigh and scum-sty during Commune party.
The culprits did their damndest to serve cheap liquors,
mixed in mut-bowls beyond recognition,
a sot rendition.
Not a drop of goodly ale,
wine or mead or needed cidre,
or brindled braggit!
I balk at the sweet bile hungrily swilled by boys.
L’s devilled eggs mended much – gave S. a needed snack.
The Devil’s a chef among lesser fiends.
After scullery slavery and ovarious bites,
S. and I nestled in
for Michael Collins and mutually gnawed a mutton shank.
She’s the first woman I’ve sunk teeth into one bone with!
Mouth-millers mutually munching,
unsheepishly on mutton.
Meet teeth tearing the meat.

-Nathan Paul Hillman, 2007-2009