Table Manners

“—and the dish ran away with the spoon.”
From Hey Diddle Diddle, the Cat and the Fiddle
Mother Goose nursery rhyme

After serving up the little Jack Horner
and little Miss Muffet, Mother takes us

around the mulberry bush squawking
endless tales of domestic and barnyard high jinks.

But spilling the flatware affair—
what could’ve prompted such gossip

that in time all children learn to recite?
Was it out of spite for a Canadian lover

who flew south for greener pastures?
Give it time, fork and saucer will piece it

together, see each other across
a less-crowded table, the Yin missing

its Yang, and then conspire with knife
to set things right.

Holy Bread

I.

I sold a slice of Holy Bread on eBay for a buck fifty. To clarify, it was a slice of foccacia, the top layer of my chicken curry sandwich, roughly the thickness of Texas toast and cut into a perfect triangle, its innards painted the mustard tint of liquefied curry powder. This alone does not make it Holy Bread, but rather it was the bite I lopped off the left side of the edible isosceles that, with the precision of my teeth and angular chisel of my upper lip, carved out the likeness of a holiday conifer. There they were, pecan shavings embedded into the bread representing gifts of the magi, a small manger near the base of the tree. It’s quite something to see the promise of eternal life in the underbelly of a sandwich slice during the lunch hour. To be fair, this is not good evangelism.

II.

The prize was perfectly sealed on a white ceramic plate with translucent pink saran wrap. It was tastefully photographed with an artful description. I had to use a friend’s account for I had no dealings in Internet commerce. This guy Gene who I work with bought it as a favor, a joke, perhaps a gift, but certainly an insult considering his nominal bid. He could’ve saved me a great deal of trouble with all that Internet stuff. I haven’t visited the Holy Bread, but Gene’s wife tells me it rests near the head of their formal table, the one nobody sits at for meals, atop an antique sideboard, free of mold, pure as the day they it was conceived.

III.

Recently, two sisters from Virginia posted a corn flake for sale on eBay resembling a perfect likeness of the state of Illinois. No miracle, no leap of faith, just dumb luck straight out of the box. The flake fetched $1,350. I’ve never been a fan of the land of Lincoln. Now I’m led to believe that Virginia is for scammers. I’ll be spending Christmas this year with Gene and his family. I’ll be the one sitting at the head of the table with a well-sealed slice of bread, fully believing in divine intervention.

The Studio Head Outlines His Vision for the Summer Blockbuster

Let’s get a Tony, but not Anthony.
As in Tony Hawk. Tony Soprano. Tony the Tiger. Scratch Tony Danza.

We’ll need a high-ranking stalwart lead to anchor this crew.
Captain Stubing. Captain Kirk. Captain Kangaroo. Oh Captain, my Captain.

There will have to be a love interest. A Ginger or Marianne project.
Daisy Duke. Patty Duke. Doris Duke. But not David Duke. It’s not that kind of film.

Find a side kick. A yes-man. A real surprising laugh-getter to lighten the mood.
Brokaw. C. Everett Coop. Stephen Hawking. Anyone but Cheech. Or Screech.

The plot? It’s something with a lot of explosions. And deceit. Or mutant viruses.
Tank tops and prank calls. Definitely prank calls.