Dinner Spat

By Paul Handley

Carve me another slice

Of that hambone.

What in the hell is a

Hambone, Rufus?

Well, Beauregard, it don’t

Mean nothing in particular,

Just what present itself,

Like that twitchin thigh

Part, the fire done singed

The sweat off. And don’t

Call me Rufus.

Don’t call me Beauregard.

And Rufus is my name,

But I don’t like the way

It sounds in your mouth.

Now cut me some or I’ll

take off the gag and you’ll

hear a squeal that will

split the oaks.

This was your idea.

Don’t suppose that

Matters if the authorIty

Were to floss your teeth

Right now. You do floss,

Don’t your Beauregard?

You’re right and you were

Right about keeping him

Alive. Tastes like

European chicken without

The steroids.

And preserves, right?

Right.

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Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs. He has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD. He has driven a cab and sold meat door-to-door. Paul has work included or forthcoming in Apollo’s Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, Ophelia Street, Poesia and others.