I Was Just Frosted Poem by Susan Wheeler

Thanks, Ray, this is just what the doctor ordered.

No, you never see me have one with olives—your father likes
olives but I can't stand them.

No, cocktail onions are just picked small. Turn that down, Dan.

Avocados, toothpicks. Coleus, root sprawl.
The diffident glints of a late-day sun, rays
splintered by leaves: they shake and, in their
shaking, streak the light. Transparent murk
of glasses at the glass.

Would you move just one inch over? There. The light was in my eye.