Mr. Coddle's Kitchen

Mr. Coddle's Kitchen

Our appetite is omnipresent.
Dear kinsman, we welcome you
To Mr. Coddle's kitchen
Where he prepares unusual treats,
Exotic, yet imposing feasts.

He is in there now, hustling, bustling:
Trickling sweat, he bakes a cake.
His fingers clot the milk
While he kneads it in the dough of dust
And ashes from his cigarettes.

His hens sleep underneath the table,
Glassy eyed with heads unhinged.
Their eggs don't hatch but turn—
Turn olive beneath crack-breaking shells,
As they wait for death by skillet.

Over in the corner a toad purrs:
The jet-black cat catches flies.
Her tongue curls around them,
Thick as Python round a baby's neck,
And within a gasp, they're eaten.

Some had fallen, wing-singed by the heat,
Onto pans, crocks, paper plates.
How a flame keeps order!
Even Mr. Coddle feels its power:
His raven shirt clings to his chest.

Poison Ivy grows in coffee cups.
He picks their leaves to cook soup.
The sirloin of a mouse
Spits fat and sizzles on the griddle
From rare to medium till well done.

Its fur, which had polished silver ware,
Soaks in some prismatic bath.
The speckled water foams:
Mr. Coddle brews tea with it despite its germs,
Toasts toasts to his beloved's lot.

The table’s set, dinner is ready,
Mr. Coddle sings and whistles.
He's been a chef for years,
But still loves to spoil his fellow loons
At Club Cuckoo—at Club Cuckoo.

Comments and suggestions are always appreciated.

Claudia G. K.