“How much for Sardine?”
My query.
“The name is Madonna,”
Her Response.
“Choose ten big,”
My demand.
“Will turn nineteen
Next month,” snaps she.

Wrapped half in half out,
With Madonna-smile string,
Waves she, the packet.

Did it slip?

Wife cleanses,
Tosses to cat, those
With rotten gills.
Tongue, acerbic chops
The man who regrets not,
The wasted bucks.

Swear I, to stop
Eating fish,
Fried without oil
And spice, in the
Microwave mind.
Swear, be vegetarian
From tomorrow,
To be true.