SUMPTUARY LAWS
Familials, bureaucrats, and elected officials
pitch hissy fits, bicker and dicker
over minor infractions and petty expressions
of opulence: the location of corner offices
and windows, parking spots, haircuts, pinching
dress codes, veils, bare arms, beach wear,
bans––yes, even books, cupcake amnesties
(Which end of the egg?). Once, roiling
factions questioned whether or not
drinking chocolate in the morning
broke the fast. (A papal bull
put all the agitation to rest
in its declaration that it did not.)
Forget tobacco!
In the wake of a tragic enferno
in their opera house, the ladies of Barcelona
are still not permitted to wear long evening
gowns. Oh, the limits! Buttercream…
maraschino cherries, alcohol, caviar;
qualities, delicacies, flesh;
baroque banquet, golf, a moveable feast.
Even the entitlements of pleasures
and inheritances have limits—one should
not shout “Fire!” in a crowded theater:
adoptees to be pampered and groomed
nepotistically as indulgent paramours
or heirs. Nothing so decadent of scale
as to trigger any bonfire of vanities!
We’ll behave ourselves… do good, yet. Just…
be a love and grant us one more gaudy night!
TEA PARTY OF THE ORANGE PIG
Just Russian tea. No cilantro
or basil. No tomatoes. No corn.
No dainty cucumber sandwiches
with the crust cut away.
Meat loaf. The Orange Pig
basically careens from
crisis to crisis. Gets a rush
from defending an attack.
He likes the intoxication
of when international guests
affirm and re-affirm his mercurial
identity… and perceived authority.
Showboating, he has been
known to recklessly “share”
code word classified information
like vodka or caviar. Tonight,
someone sleeps in Paris. Though,
according to one of his imaginary
friends, Paris is no longer Paris
and France is no longer France.
HUNKERED AND HANKERING
I have a hankering for some sushi
or the comfort of a burger tonight.
An editor has just asked me
for a piece on the Shia-Sunni
conflict. Rather than stay in and write.
I would like to find some sushi.
Said I’d walk my neighbor’s Shih Tzu.
(“Surely, you saw that coming….” Right?)
A friend just phoned to ask me
if I know anything about shiatsu.
The muscles in her back are tight.
Again, sushi … or sashimi?
And what’s it with the Shia and Sunni,
the fundamental point of their fight?
The lady next door is sweet; calls me
“Honey,” tells everyone to “Be
a lamb;” gets a little “tight.”
Tonight, will it be a tray of sushi…
or a giant boat of fresh sashimi?
Scott Hightower is the author of four books of poetry in the US and two bilingual collections published in Madrid (Devenir). He lives in Manhattan and teaches at New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study.
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