Christina E Petrides

“Publisher’s Lunch”

A leaf from her salad fluttered to the floor.

“I’m being defenestrated,” she yelped.

“Defoliated,” her colleague remarked,

picking up and tossing the errant spinach out the window.

“Not deflowered?” asked their admin

as they buried their nose in their new bouquet

and waggled their eyebrows at the delivery guy,

who looked around in confusion. “What the fu—?”

“That’s the idea!” the admin said. “But we’re spoken for.”

“I speak for the trees,” said the salad-eater.

“Naked or otherwise,” agreed her colleague.

The delivery guy left, muttering about nuts.

“Conspiracy Theorists”

Armpit literature, bookmarked:

They’re keeping secrets from you…

Here’s the real story, the original text—

just read this, unwashed masses,

consult the boil at your chest-high beltline

as the void stares into your soul and cabals

control the communication means by which we share

our stories of international machinations

in single-minded efforts to draw more views.

Ad revenues pile up as we beat the capitalist horse

until it dies in accordance with our prognostications,

but not before your credulity has financed

unaccountable luxuries.

“Gym Notice”

To the testosterone-addled monster

who broke my workout rhythm,

rudely asserting his moment at the weight bench

was more vital than my awkward calisthenics:

Your meaty arms aren’t strong enough

to counteract the effect of your BCGs,

Mister Wrist Wraps.

“Weekdays”

shrill alarms chase

peaceful sleep panicked

to the breakfast table

and thence out the door

to school and the office

where we sit like rocks

among shoreward ripples

and then gulp lunch only

to starve until late supper

after assorted afternoon

and evening meetings

belatedly release us

stumbling across curbs

to collapse on the sofa

for shows and snacks

then melt in showers

and fall back into bed

“Search Fail”

In the throes of fruitless job hunting, he thought,

“Perhaps I could become a body collector.”

From a childhood terrified of Egyptian mummy photos

to being unaffected by parlor-prepared corpses,

had he come to the point where he could manage

the rotting remnants of those outside his acquaintance?

“The dead are dead. It does need to be done.”

If he were so unfortunate as to perish beyond the limits

of banal urban existence, he would hope

someone would find his emerging bones and secure them.

However, brief inquiry revealed a severe, distinctive odor—

“People frequently get nauseated catching just a whiff”—

one allegedly hard to expunge, to the point

the living reeked thereafter of decomposition.

Even the thought of rotting tomatoes made him gag.

“…maybe this is one job I shouldn’t consider.”

“Dixie Barista”

Hon, take a look over yonder.

That guy—just out of the blue car.

Well, I may be old enough to be his grandma,

but this girl still has eyes.

Holy cow. He’s a fine-looking young man.

Good morning, sir.

How can I help you?

Latte? Small or large?

That’ll be five seventy-eight.

Where you from?

Korea. North or South?

Hah! I knew you weren’t some damn Yankee.

Your Mama and Daddy and God together

should be proud of what they created.

Do you like chocolate? Yes?

Well, here’s a cookie on the house.

Just for brightening up my day.

You have a good one, hear?