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Sunday, September 28

More Poetry by Phineas Matova

As I have been bedridden recently with the grippe, my subject matter has become limited to the contents of my bedchamber.

"Spoon"

Spoon, laying against the empty bowl
which was full of soup.
But has now been consumed.
Gazing at my reflection
In the round part
Even all distorted
I am a handsome devil.



"Socks"

You lay intertwined on the floor
lifeless and eyeless
Well of course lifeless,
because you are socks.
And it would be very frightening
If you were alive.
And as everyone knows,
Socks can't see.


*sneezes*

I believe this one to be my finest work yet, spare and economical...yet it conveys so very much about the human condition in just four lines... I call it:


"Toast"


Gently browning over the fire,
Crispy and golden, just the way I like it
Crumbling delicately in my mouth
Especially good with butter or jam.


*sneezes and coughs*


Actually I'd like some toast very much right now, but as the cook for the boarding house is off shirking her duties at home, I shall have to figure out the stove myself. Pah.

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