MICROWAVES Poem by Kiki Dimoula

What are you doing here

a straight working road like you

on an idle bench?



Well, I'm psychoanalyzing free of charge

this painter from a foreign dark-skinned land,

how calmly and skillfully he paints

the day out-of-work.



I midwife reliability and honor.

He plants the brush in one hand

and in the other's microwaves

he heats a breadstick dried by hours

upon the sun's proclaiming tongue.



I'm analyzing the inventive stalling

of his hunger. He eats a sesame

apart from each small bite

extending its face value.



The light annoys me. Difficult customer.

He doesn't like the paint job

keeps changing it by stirring in

every new passing hour.



I'm furious at obedient expatriation.

With every passing hour

it paints the unemployed day.



Finish already.

Soon the difficult customer

will set.