Mario and Claire pick up their Sunday Special lunch order at Shay Grill’s curbside. They drive to a neighboring office park, where they easily spot their friends already set up in folding chairs next to their SUV in the wide expanse of the empty parking lot. Roger and Ann wave to them.
Mario parks about twelve parking spaces down from where Roger and Ann are situated. He and Claire position their folding chairs to face their friends. Claire snaps her finger just before she sits down, remembering to grab the bullhorn from the trunk of the car.
“We’re so glad to see you both. How are you guys doing?” Claire calls out through the bullhorn.
Ann picks up their bullhorn and responds, “We’ve been looking forward to finally having lunch with you and Mario.”
“Better butter my beans.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans and broil my beef.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans, broil my beef, and bring my beverage.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans, broil my beef, bring my beverage, and burp me.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans, broil my beef, bring my beverage, burp, and bathe me.”
“Better butter and pepper my beans, broil my beef, bring my beverage, burp and bathe me and b . . . .”
Eyes darting from the restaurant’s kitchen to the exit, Hobart is poised to leave before the server comes back. Timing is essential. So is nickel and diming and penny pinching. He earned the nickname, El Cheapo, for suckering his friends to pay for him until they wised up and dwindled to zero. No loss for him, as he saved time and energy by not having to scour for birthday and holiday gifts through lost and found bins in various places. Right now his goal is to dash out unnoticed. He considers changing his nickname to Dodger. It sounds more adventurous.
My feet are famous,
They’re like Ghandi’s and Frodo’s;
My sole claim to fame.
Sheila shucks corn in her shack, stewing over a schnauzer that chewed up her Scottish scarf. Feeling skittish, she chucks the last husk into the bucket and goes outside to tend to her Shetland pony. After brushing down her sheltie, she heads to Sean’s Shed, where she’s taken a shine for the shopkeeper. She wants to invite Sean to lunch. As she faces him, she’s overcome with shyness. Shrugging off the shudder in her shoulders, succeeding only in worsening the shaking of her voice, she bleats, “Would you like some sheep butt? Wait . . . what? I . . . sheesh . . . I mean shish kebab?”
It’s Cinco de Mayo,
Remember the margarita,
Or, is it the Alamo*?
Let’s do the cha cha cha,
Then serve the mojito
And tortilla chips and salsa;
Soon, we can go
And break open the piñata,
Via Zoom, Skype, or Zoho.
Images from Pixabay
*Cinco de Mayo is the Anniversary of the Battle of Puebla; to read more about it: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinco_de_Mayo
As you visit ‘n see
Friends and family;
Six feet away,
And forego the Easter buffet.
Keeping the distance
Between you, me,
Part 1: Domestic Bliss
“Buck . . . buck . . .”
Part 2: Disturbance Behind the Screen
“Kuh . . . kuh . . . KACK . . .”
Part 3: Runaway
“Cluck . . . cluck . . .”
Dismal chance of a lobster roll call as man hankers for lobster rolls.
[This is a monostich, a single-line poem. To learn more, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monostich].