The Picnic

Tonight they gather
In the sweatstain park,
Too hot to eat;
Could'a told them that!
One of two powwows--
December, September--
They dare to hold
In gritty upfrontness.
I was tempted to go
After putting it off,
But what's the use?
The old rampart's intact,
Surrounding their clique;
What am I to them
But a minor nuisance,
A fly in their puddings
That have spoiled in the heat?
Let them cackle and gibe,
And give themselves props
Suffused with self-flattery
For works half-begun.
Inferior species,
These Internet whales,
Who click, boom, and whistle
Across a vast gloom.
I hate to belittle them,
Beautiful bowheads,
But saltwater cetes
Suck at crafting a tome.
Are they munching on tacos
From Whatzername's cookbook?
Do they drip like the frosting
On buttercream cakes?
(We need a hard rain
To cleanse the palate . . .)
I'm as cool as a cucumber
Floating on ice.

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

Well written poem on picnic ☺️. Beautiful lines.