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Death By Dinner

Poetry By: blackorchid918
Poetry



A narrative piece about a disgruntled homemaker and the revenge she enacts on her no-good husband.


Submitted:Apr 8, 2010    Reads: 45    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


Pots and pans, rattling, banging
A gritty symphony of metal clanging
That she commands
Outside the window, that vast city sky
Catches her bloodshot, life-weary eye
Down the fire escape
Oh, that she could fly!
From this fire, this burnt out life

Soap suds squish and splash between her fingers
Bringing her back on track, to the task
That still lingers
A ritual she hates...preparing the dinner
Fuchsia frock and fruit-print apron her armor
Cleavers and chopping blocks her tools of the trade
She grabs the pulpy creature, all wrapped up in plastic
His culinary choices, always so dramatic
But this was his favorite, a creature from beneath
A deep-sea delicacy to stuff between his teeth
Onto the chopping block
For a gory gutting
In her mind she sees his face instead
Of this poor creature, all dried up and dead
That ne'er-do-well husband of hers, Fred
With his running around and running up debts

Just then a pulpy limb wraps around her slim, bony hand
Shocking her straight out of angry wife-land
Next came a shriek and a desire to flee
But the tightly-wrapped tentacle would not let her be
She picked up a cleaver, held it high in the air
And brought it down with a wide-eyed stare
The octopus, however was too quick for that
He darted away, zig-zagged this way and that
She chased him around, like a woman possessed
Tripping and tipping things over, making quite a mess
Finally the octopus crept back to the counter
He had grown tired and his mood was now sour
From being the victim of a relentless pursuit
By a frazzled homemaker with the strength of a brute
She too was exhausted, but managed to stake
One last claim for the seafood meal she'd soon make
With hand ever-steady, and aim ever-ready
She gripped his large head
And my, was it heavy!
She plopped him down in a sea of hot water
But thought for a spell, about the hell
She was subjecting this little soul to
How would she feel, if in that boiling water
It was not an octopus, but her son or her daughter
She poured out the water and saved the poor thing
Then glanced down at the octopus smiling
I'll serve up a meal he won't soon forget
That weasel, when he comes home, will be met
With a truly exotic platter, one to quickly shatter
His booze-battered heart once and for all

And so it did happen that Fred came back home
From an affair with a girl who lived down the road
Just one of many he had thrown in her face
Now was the time to strike him at the base
His heart was so weak from all the years of rough living
That when he saw his meal move, he felt his blood chilling
He fell to the ground, as dead as can be
While his wife simply smiled and looked on with glee
Raised a fruity cocktail toasting her new fishy friend
Who had helped years of suffering come to an end.





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