Gurdonark's Bad Poetry (gurdonpoems) wrote,
Gurdonark's Bad Poetry

74. The Wok Distributor

In her dream, she became a regional director,
provided with her own demonstration kitchen,
her navy-blue apron like a great ship's flag,
as she described how she overcame adversity,
teaching her neighborhood how to stir fry.

She got a little closer to God
when she got into the flow
selling rice cookers as if she were popping popcorn shrimp,
she felt a strange rush of submerged passion
emanating from her--
men looked at her now as if she knew how to cook--
as if she knew how to sell.

In her dream, her china cabinet fit her dining room,
her children fit into her back yard,
her income fit into her budget,
she fit into the jeans she wore at 25.

In her dream, the minister shook her hand warmly
each Sunday morning,
even as she felt a special glow,
left over from Saturday night.

Her life worked like sunflower seed oil,
seamlessly smooth, low calorie,
virtually fat-free.

When she woke up she put her fist through the dry wall,
stacked aside the unsold boxes, and
put on her greeter's uniform.

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