Clive Oseman /Shark/


“Waiter- There’s a shark in my soup.”
It sounded absurd at first
and I tried to suppress it,
but if my eyes were deceiving
I struggled to believe it
after seeing such a clear image.

My need for truth is pretty obsessive
so despite the fear of being laughed at
I had to address it.
I called him to my table
expecting him to be unable to resist
a snigger and the standard reply…
“Shhh… else everyone will want one.”

But to my surprise he said he knew,
praised my powers of perception
and told me it was vital
never to question my own sanity.
Few people ever saw it, he said.
But it’s there…
waiting to strike, beneath the surface
of the trusty warmth of minestrone.

Some, he informed me, saw snakes in spaghetti
but most took the menu at face value,
trusting the chef to do things correctly,
never suspecting any hint of deception
behind a carefully crafted, respectable air.

“Only poets see the hidden despair” he insisted
as he backed away with a knowing stare.




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