Aida’s Dinner Guests….

Suddenly it’s clear the glass has been wiped,
an age old custom had been strewn across
streets of perfect blue tar.
But the miles and inches ahead were not
mine, though I surely had travelled them
you could see that al the chemist had been
clever in his deceit of rudimental substance.

They were hung on my door, which wouldn’t close,
no socks were worn I could see a thick vein
around a thin ankle bone.
Why there, I wondered how on earth had they
chose, of course use the cord from my pyjamas
how else would they have known.

No photograph could equal this scene, so distinct were
the colours, blood red, lightest blue heavily stained.
Should I raise them higher perhaps clean, or should I
leave well alone the dirt so ingrained.
Suddenly there stood before me one of the perpetrators
of this act, evidence held so brazenly in his hands, it
screamed not a care. Should I speak, sound angered,
do something to attract, perhaps take the upper hand in
this surreal affair.

Later as we dined their crime still hanging indifferent
to our eating, their Goose was well cooked as was the
rest of the meal, delicious. From an outside door there
came an elongated squeal, upstairs Aida she really was
very excitable but so salacious. I often wonder now if
her squeal had been elongated as it came through the
letter box,

or perhaps she’d also noticed that our gentlemen
guests wore no socks. She cursed all the way down
the hall but our hunger took over, as well as our
creativity, well I thought she really is very
salaciously sweet.