by Eddie Aderne

“Tate Britain has defended advertising for a head of coffee with a salary of nearly £40,000— more than the average wage of a London-based curator—after critics said the role highlights how low museum professionals’ wages are.”
—The Guardian

Tate Britain hosts a Roastery
Which (here I quote its boastery)
Is vibrant, innovative, and
Diverse. If you would understand
These epithets’ extent, they reign
Throughout the coffee value chain:
The Roasters champion all genders
Among their growers and their blenders.
The head of coffee role requires
Blending and roasting, per desires;
This innovative coffee space
Relies on you. You are its face.
While managing the bev’rage team,
You’re still responsible for cream,
And everything pertaining to
Each Tate (de-)caffeinated brew.
This vibrant business helps to fund
The Gallery, else moribund;
You might be quite surprised to learn
How much these not-for-profits earn.

by Nora Jay

“I went through a phase of carrying Camus and Sartre under my arm, thinking that would be irresistible.”
—Tracey Thorn, interviewed in The Guardian

I waited till Sartre linked arms with Camus:
Then I pounced, as you do:
Now we stroll round the Café de Flore, bras dessus
Bras dessous, bras dessous.

by James Hamby

The rule of law was nice,
But I guess it’s had its season—
It seems “high crimes” are now no vice.
(We used to call them “treason.”)

by Julia Griffin

“Court rules against woman charged after stepchildren saw her topless
Utah judge refuses to overturn lewdness measure in case of Tilli Buchanan, who removed her top while hanging drywall in her own home.”
—The Guardian

In Utah, women may be sued
On legal grounds of being lewd
When patching walls while semi-nude
If witnessed by their husbands’ brood.
Chaste meanings may be misconstrued;
It’s therefore prudent to conclude:
With DIY in Utah, you’d
Best not indulge in nuditude.

by Bruce Bennett

Once upon a horrid morning, while I pondered, sick and scorning,
How that monster still was squatting on our country and its lore—
Just before I turned the news on, well before I had my shoes on,
I had thoughts of something different, different from my thoughts before—
I was struck by some new hope, a hope I had not had before—
His conviction, yes, and more!

His removal, then his sentence: years in prison, stripped of Twitter.
He would pay for lies, corruption, graft, extortion, every deed
He’d connived in and kept hidden, every secret act forbidden,
His whole crooked lifetime public, brought to light, condemned with speed—
Law and order reestablished, acting now with force and speed—
Let him whine and moan and plead!

With that hope and now exalted, in the midst of hope I halted.
What if nothing came of what was now the only thing I craved?
What if he remains anointed? What if we are disappointed?
What if all of this proves fruitless that we’ve suffered for, and slaved?
What if he continues shameless, now unshackled, more depraved?
What if we can not be saved?

So, although I put my shoes on, I declined to turn the news on.
Better ignorance, I thought, than learning how Impeachment plays.
I will find out when the time comes if he’s guilty with his crime chums.
Meanwhile I will find some peace, and I will spend some pleasant days.
I will tell myself, Yes, really, we will have some pleasant days.
Really, this was just a phase.

by Julia Griffin

“Talk like an Egyptian: mummy’s voice heard 3,000 years after death
Researchers in UK recreate Nesyamun’s sound using 3D version of his vocal tract”
—The Guardian

What did a mummy sound like? Now we know.
A 3D version of one vocal tract
Is now available on audio.
You might expect it snufflesome and cracked,
A sort of prehistoric phonograph;
In fact the sound is clear and not that deep.
You can imagine how the corpse might laugh,
Or warble in his bath, or cough, or weep.
As for the words he utters, or the word:
There’s some dispute. It sounds a bit like “air,”
Or maybe “bare.” Or how would you construe
This fleeting, bleating syllable you heard?
The past lies still for all its heirs to bear.
What does the mummy say? That’s up to you.

by Dan Campion

“No, I don’t consider them very serious injuries, relative to other injuries I’ve seen.”
—Commander-in-Chief Donald Trump, on concussion symptoms reported by American troops after Iranian ballistic missile strikes on their base

Doc Don is quick with his decree;
Who needs a medical degree?
It’s just some headaches, he avers
(Not serious, like Doc’s bone spurs).

by Nora Jay

“Frozen iguanas forecast to shower south Florida as temperatures drop
[W]ildlife conservationists recommend not touching frozen iguanas, as they may thaw unexpectedly and feel threatened if a person comes close to them.”
—The Guardian

O Florida! In August, all bananas;
In January, gellified iguanas.
Floridians are primed to be accosted
This month by reptiles, keen to be defrosted;
Experts, however, warn against succumbing.
The temperature’s not harmful, only numbing,
And when iguanas’ blood once more is moving,
You’ll find their attitude needs some improving.
You’d think they might be wheezing out hosannas;
But gratitude is foreign to iguanas,
And what could be more irksome, in a blizzard,
Than being threatened by a chilly lizard?

by Randy Mazie

“Trump Removes Pollution Controls on Streams and Wetlands …
The new water rule for the first time in decades [will] allow landowners and property developers to dump pollutants such as pesticides and fertilizers directly into hundreds of thousands of waterways, and to destroy or fill in wetlands for construction projects.”
—The New York Times

Duck. Duck. Goose.
Chemicals on the loose.
Put them in our food supply.
Tighten up the noose.

Little Jack Coroner
inspects a pumpkin pie.
The lab results: carcinogens.
Jump. Skip. Die.

by Nora Jay

“The Mitchell County Animal Rescue in North Carolina posted an adoption ad on Facebook that introduced the world to Perdita, the ”World’s Worst Cat.’
‘We thought she was sick,’ the ad said. ‘Turns out she’s just a jerk.'”
—CNN

HOME WANTED for a piece of work:
A veritable feline jerk.
Believe she’s sick? Believe again:
She’s just a claw-deploying pain,
Whose one idea of a lark
Is spreading bitterness and dark.
She is not spayed, but never fear:
No other cat would dare come near;
She’s had her shots, but you know what?
You’ll quickly wish that she had not.
Likes: pricey foods (each one just once);
Emitting bored, sarcastic grunts;
Biting and scratching; raising welts.
Hates: pleasing anybody else;
Togetherness of any sort;
Affection; courtesy; in short
All kinds of human contact save
The kind that means an early grave.
With most adoptions, we prefer
A trial run, but not with her;
The bottom line: this toxic cat
Once yours is yours, and that is that.
This is the form, if you insist.
It names a vet, and exorcist.

by Orel Protopopescu

(with apologies to Rogers & Hammerstein)

What’s the use of wond’ring
if he’s evil or deranged,
or if you find his tweets and morals crass?
Oh, what’s the use of wond’ring
if he’ll blow the world to bits?
He’s their fellow and they’ll keep on
pretending he’s no ass.

Common sense may tell you
that the ending will be sad,
unless his party’s hiding honest souls.
But what’s the use of wond’ring
if there’s honor among thieves?
Nothing scares them like their leader,
except the latest polls.

Something made Trump the way that he is,
Big Macs or genes or drugs.
And something lets him keep what is his—
A base with a taste for thugs.

He calls all children “sacred,”
while he starves and cages some,
but nothing seems to make the Senate balk.
His bribes, assaults and treason,
they keep covering up like mad.
He’s their fellow and they need him,
so all the rest is talk.

Common sense may tell you
that the ending will be sad,
unless Trump’s party crashes at the polls.
But what’s the use of wond’ring
if we’ll end the nightmare soon?
Wily Fox chews truth to pieces,
with help from Russian trolls.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Etienne Naude, 19, placed a slice of white bread on the ground at Bucklands Beach in Auckland, using longitude and latitude to ensure he was precisely opposite a volunteer he had found in the south of Spain after posting for help on Reddit.
The two men—total strangers—had 12,724km of earth between them, creating an ‘earth sandwich’.”
—The Guardian

Two strangers, mapping out its girth,
Have made a sandwich of the earth.
In Bucklands Beach and southern Spain,
They framed the whole terrene terrain,
Encompassing a lavish heap
8,000 miles (or almost) deep
Of dusty mantle, rocks ablaze,
O2, Fe, and mayonnaise.
Two well-positioned satellites
Observed this heartiest of bites,
And YouTube’s now put all on show:
The least exclusive club we know.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Man requests sword fight with ex-wife and lawyer to settle legal dispute:
David Ostrom, 40, of Paola, Kansas asks judge for trial by combat in 12 weeks, so he has time to secure Japanese samurai swords”
—The Guardian

Divorce proceedings need not be so hard
If proper measures are secured. En garde!
In twelve weeks’ time, if UPS accords,
I shall secure two wakizashi swords,
To end this disagreement with Bridgette
Concerning custody and taxes. Pret!
Upon the field of battle, we shall rend
Our souls from these our bodies. Trust me, friend,
A mortal joust will be a holiday
Compared with lawyers’ interviews. Allez!

by Orel Protopopescu

His tricky grin is everywhere—
with Trump and Nunes, Kellyanne.
Confronted with the photos, notes,
they cry, Who’d trust a sleazy man?

Most of the GOP, it seems.
It’s sticking with the Sleaze-in-Chief,
the one who spurred Lev Parnas on.
It takes a thief to catch a thief.

by Julia Griffin

“Scientists use stem cells from frogs to build first living robots …
The source of the cells [Xenopus laevis] led the scientists to call their creations ‘xenobots’. …
[R]esearchers describe how … [s]ome crept along in straight lines, while others looped around in circles or teamed up with others as they moved around. …
Thomas Douglas, a senior research fellow at the Oxford Uehiro Centre for Practical Ethics, said: ‘ … difficult questions could arise about whether these xenobots should be classified as living creatures or machines.’”
—The Guardian

They live ten days, if that is what they do,
Or else their batteries endure that long.
Some have two “legs.” Some have a hole, right through
Their “hearts.” Without a colony or song,

How can they have a sense of self or group?
Is it by choice they creep along the ground
In a straight line, or singly loop the loop,
Or join with others as they move around?

They are not frogs. Let’s say they simply are,
And pray they’ll clean our world and eat our waste
Before the time (let’s pray it’s very far)
When really awkward questions must be faced.