Schrödinger’s Restaurant

Squeezed five tight onto a Córdoba leatherette
Banquet, the one who never says “always:”
Memory’s lost in the pantry. Yet when you sell a story,
Instead of that pinstripe suit
There’s a T-shirt forever holding up a
Thumb print pointed right “I’m with stupid.”
Simultaneously towards me and you
Never together and always on top.

A broken, static nonelectromagnetic
Compass of neurotic eye brightening
Mouth watering bites.
Share my fish of the everyday special.
It’s a big enough red herring to eat now and never.
The free beverages flow but forever
Into a pool of ice a melted puffin pastry.
Tricky things, so inviting
Yet so biting you hear them thinking
“So this hairless jailor wears a suit
But no tuxedoes found uptown.”
Your rainbow nose bird
Smoked her way across town
Marlene Dietrich of the Bronx zoo.

Slippery slopes on open toast slathered
By some noxious fruits and fragrant curds.

Congratulations, you’ve made yourself breakfast today.
Let us eat then, you and I
Let us wilt upon the sky a leave of grass
Green before the tornadoes. But just suppose this time
You wear something resembling clothes.
It’s absolutely forbidden to bring a lab coat and
An appetite whetted on spittle griddle cakes.
Fashionably stressed
Your breakfasts served in bed
Where eating by fading light of winter days
Laughing at you for getting up at lunchtime,
Breakfast mistaken for the wrong meal.
Blonde diner car broad
She’s such a dish penning an order and turning on a heel,
Suddenly slipping on a banana peel.
How slapstick made you laugh.

Let’s call it a short semantic service for the guilty
Pleasures of brunch. Eat of gratitude instead
Since sincerity is beyond my gastronomic experience.
A trifle falls apart in a box
The berries tumble like Jill and Jill
From a hill of yellow sponge.

You won’t find me
But you can always see me
I’m spinning plates at
Schrödinger’s Restaurant
Where food arrives and then doesn’t.
Cats black run out the front gate
Arriving white at the back swinging gates.

Finish eating peacefully, with love your wife and not wife.
Her note scratched on the back of a non payable check:
Make sure to do the mopping up of everything on your plate,
With white toast, or with nothing but your tongue.
No ones looking at you anymore
Anachronisms come built with a kill switch.
Schrödinger typed the menu in mimeograph blue
And we lift our morning quiz up to light our eyes
With the power of copies, copies, copies,
Enough copies.

Ilene

Female. East coast transplant living in the Bay Area of California. Living with Stage IV breast cancer. Married to the coolest guy in the universe who occasionally suffers from serious depression. Love my stepsons, although I never thought I'd have that thankless job - ever! And my best friend Simon is also my cat. How I have survived with stage IV: treatments including chemo and surgery; palliative oncology; tenacity; a dark sense of humor; support groups; and my newly reinvented career as a vintage and antiques maven. Some days I miss the old me who led a well respected and well paid life as a business strategist in high tech. So much for that. I blog to simply share my experiences and my poetic approach with others who have cancer of any kind or with their care givers and those who love them. If one person at the very least finds a little commonality or a friend out in the ether tor a smile, a common nod about this experience, or even a link to assistance, then I have accomplished a small but extraordinarily meaningful goal. Go team.

Tell me what you think.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.