Full Tank
I ate too many beans. I’m like a gas
balloon. Oh, mama mia, beans in soup
for breakfast, beans on toast for lunch, alas
for dinner, I had beans from Guadeloupe.
I’ve got a stomach ache, a pressure stuck
inside my kishkas (Yiddish guts). I hear
my critics start complaining, “What the fuck,
for gas she writes a sonnet?” Do not fear,
my darlings, I will find a way to be
profound, sincere, polite, amusing, and
complete my sonnet. Pain may torture me,
I may regret those beans, but still I stand
before you, belching iambs, line fourteen
Voila! the glory of the humble bean.
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