image from here

Off the Cuff,

starched & stewed.

I sat across the table from a person eating ramen,
and realized that the two of us wore starched white shirts in common.
Though she was black and I was white (well, somewhat pink and pasty),
We shared good times and found the noodles really mighty tasty!

But there was something lurking in the murky, steamy broth.
A tentacle trailed out one side onto the tablecloth.
We hearty two gave not a care and slurped away, non-plussed,
as pleased as punch, the whole day long, to share the octopus.

She regaled with tales of Autumn polar bear safaris,
as I poured glass (and glass again) of bacon-fat Campari.
Then I recalled a zeppelin flight through skies azure and starry,
but none of it impressed the sassy, lounging calamari:

“I surfed Orion’s belt-line on a whim, one snowy May,
and scaled Mount Everest twice drunk and high on Arbor day!
You think your tales are oh-so-clever I should soak here awed?
Guuurl, I’m a Royal Motha’, Magic Ceph-a-lo-paaaaahd.”