Poetic Imperialism

The Wanker poetry group keeps expanding, much to the dismay of its original members.  However, if there’s a rhyme in your heart, why not share the joy?   Here goes from our newest member.

MY OVEN

By E. Z. Offe

What’s in a name? The great bard once

Asked.  I

Align myself with him—

Completely.

I have an oven.

But is it an oven?  Or—

Is it four burners with

Something underneath where

I reheat pizza?

What defines “oven,”

Gertrude Stein?

Is it a range?  Is it a stove?

Is it stand alone?  Does it slide in?

Is it clinging desperately to the wall?

Gas/electric?

Conventional/convection?

I ask a salesman

Is there anything new about

Ovens?

Because mine wears the dirt

Of the ages and

To clean it would be prohibitive

To my psyche not

To mention

My lower back

The death of that sales, man

Came when

He said no.

“An oven is an oven,” thus

Using his degree in English to

Good effect.

I find that men have no problem

Saying “No” to me while

Women look at me and ask,

“Is there a bun in the oven?

Not at eighty-two

Bitch!