She does it quietly,
                a lady, less obtrusively
                than a hiccup...sake
                spilling over steamed lobster,

                her mouth, a bulb, tightening
                and then blossoming
                like a chrysanthemum. Rouge
                from her jaws dappling
                the white table cloth. Dying
                so casually...how to comment?
                Not what an artist would paint:
                Such delicate coloration!
                But there's too much pink and red.
                She hasn't the knack of a Pollack,
                maker, in the privacy of his garage
                of well-balanced death purees
                that hang in museums. He'd

                be envious of this old bag:
                her lobbing collective sake
                over the table
                for everybody to gaze at...
                to admire and wear:

                Old Lady With Lobster, Heart Stopped.
                K-K-K-K, old lady says, grasping

                her daughter's wrist, who quickly
                peels her hand away.
                "Pardon," I say to Yamamoto,
                "I think your wife's heart is stopping."

                Oh, he says, chomping his steak,
                I don't think so.. I point to

                the puddle on the floor,
                the rouge on the tablecloth,
                the lady gripping her throat and choking.

                Mr. Yamamoto gazes at her. He just
                gazes and keeps chewing, his jaw

                moving in circles like a cow.

                                

Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2003.  All Rights Reserved.