Shoot it if it rhymes

Koshy’s, Saturday night

The red checked tablecloth
always plays tricks.
Eyeball always gets stuck
on the white squares. Funny.

Squint, and I swear, I see
a desolate gondolier, prying
open a treasure-box
full of dead rats.

Sewer
water creeps up through the
red squares. Dark, damp
patterns happen
like shoulder-cuts and rumps
of slaughtered pork.

Life
Ceases on the table as a plate is
laid,
really and truly.
A sheet of white paper
follows.

You can write an ode
even to a misguided
trout, the tablecloth
says. The thought
lingers.