Lament of the Hot Pie Deliv’ryman

My dearest Miss Bergman, how do you do?
It’s the pizza guy here (my name is Stu),
Calling on behalf of justice and peace,
Sighs of contentment, and mouths full of grease.

Goodly Miss Bergman, are you sitting down?
For though I do speak, I speak through a frown
Filling my face as I speed from your place,
Because of one child, some bastard disgrace
Who squirll’d away my tip, and with it my
Desire to continue delivery.

Being young once, I fully comprehend
The value of money to child of ten.
But each penny spent is first rightly earn’d,
Else in brimstone fires we see ourselves burn’d.
And thus, our great God made grass long and green,
And man made the great lawn-mowing machine,
That those irksome youths might mow up some cash
—Not pocket my tip, then proceed to dash.

Miss Bergman, what level of hell in truth
Do you s’pose they reserve for wicked youth?
To steal, dishonor one’s parents, and lie,
and worse, make mockery of pizza pie.
A bundle of sins in seconds enact,
Surely then, a gracious God should exact
In similar magnitude a hellish pain,
That the boy might walk in the light again.

Bergman, would I be off far in my claim
That you should know this foul tip-stealer’s name?
That you named him once upon his birth, that he
Could go named upon the earth, so let me
Know the name that stole my dollars three and
I can drop off this next cheesy viand!

O, David, you say? He’s on t’other phone?
Well, David, now that my tip is your own,
You being bold and taking dollars three,
Be so bold now as to simply tell me
Why you would come across as such an ass,
And take those few dollars needed for gas?

Young David, is what you say truly true?
You took the money to see Hobbit 2:
The Desolation of Smaug? Yes, I see.
Perhaps then the tip wasn’t meant for me.
In honesty, it wasn’t gas for car
I was going to buy, but a Rockstar,
Or maybe two tall cans of Steel Reserve,
Sorry for calling and losing my nerve!

Daring wee David, perhaps you mistook
Our meeting at door for scene in a book,
Hearing Gandalf rat-tatting on the door,
The way a thrush knocks the moment before
The last light of the setting sun shines free,
Revealing truth for those who seek to see.

The Tookish lad David hoped to impress
A wand’ring wizard with burgling prowess.
Though I be no wizard (I’m merely Stu),
It be in my powers to forgive you.
But be warned, your house shall ever be curs’d
If you see movie ere reading book first.
—————————–

Tip stealing isn’t cool, kids.

Published in The Suisun Valley Review 2014 issue

On Encountering G7

On Encountering G7

In shuffles B, world-weary,
forlorn; its heavy burden
pulling you toward a left path.
Smallest digit contorts, straight-
jacket loosens, a reaching;
white wash finish fades
away from the keys that rest,
important and complacent:
five keys for the five digits
of man. C lies disgraced;
F and G will have none
of it. They commit themselves
to a foul homogenization;
B loses buoyancy, falls, drowns,
godless and forgotten, buried
alive under the mute black skies.

—–

Quinton Duval Award in Creative Writing 2014: First place winner

Published in The Suisun Valley Review 2014 issue