Rhubarb Poem by Taylor Rosewood

I see the steak needs breading, and the eggs-
they still aren't cracked. It's morning in our
kitchen, but both our moods are black.

Then she says, 'I fixed you pie.' and it takes me
by surprise. She's never fixed me pie, but
there's a funniness to her eyes.

And when I ask what kind, she tells me 'rhubarb'
without a hitch, and I begin to feel paranoid,
thinking, 'Perhaps my wife's a witch.'

'Isn't rhubarb poisonous? ' I ask my wife point blank,
but she already has it in front of me,
and my will has been outflanked.

So I'm eating pie for breakfast, drinking coffee
black as tar, worried about when I'll die,
and if the hospital's really that far.

But rhubarb mixed with strawberries- ahh! -
it's a taste that's oh so sweet! and the two of us
sit closer, then I see her cloven feet!

And soon my toes are tingling, and I can't seem
to feel my lips! I'm above a swirl of rhubarb, and
into that swirl I slip.

And when I regain consciousness, I'm alone on a
bloody porch. Damn paranoia has done it again.
Tomorrow she'll want a divorce.