What Do You Read, My Lord?
“My dear Polonius, I’m reading words,”
another Hamlet, in another world,
replies, his sarcasm a good two-thirds
reduced, although it’s said with lips half-curled.
It’s words, words, words from there on out, polite,
ironic banter, till Ophelia weds
her dear, neurotic prince. Their wedding night
he’s silent for a change; he’s on his meds.
Her father snores, insensible, behind
an arras in the banquet hall. The king
and queen, her in-laws now, are more than kind
to keep the old man on. She wants to sing.
But that can wait till morning scones and tea.
Horatio’s parting words: “. . . our comedy.”
The Kitchen Mistimer
My timer is one minute off.
I tried to fix it. Failed.
Soufflés to noodles Romanoff,
No dish is ever nailed.
You’d think I’d soon learn to adjust
The cooking time to get
The perfect pie with perfect crust.
It hasn’t happened yet.