“Dinner at Eight with Edgar”(unfinished)


“Dinner at Eight with Edgar”

Soon twilight falls upon my weathered roof.

but now, mid lightning, weathered-vane is heard.

The wind doth wave his wings, he spins, forsooth,

into my spacious den and there he stirs.

He harkens not to my sad tale of toe

so punished by the massive oaken leg

of table as I stumble , screaming so:

“Oh, God is there no mercy for my peg?”

 

He is a mute and un-impassioned bird.

And, senseless to my cry,  he ‘ner complains.

Continues with his game of spin_ absurd;

malevolent! (As one who is insane?)

 

But quoth this muted  bird, no “Nevermores”.

He clangs in need of basting as he churns.

Precooked,  rottiseried from all that sun.

Though, roasting of this fowl not my concern.

 

It’s time to dine with Edgar. We adjourn.

My dining table’s laid with Usher’s spleen,

  and now, it’s time to carve that turkey clean!

But he escapes!  my solitary, baleful bird.

 

“Metallic taste of hardened skin!” is heard as guests take  flight.

The knife clatters to the ground and a scream pierces the night.