The smell of frying burgers brings her sharply to the square
she cannot help but buy them – even knowing they are there
is enough to send her diet to paroxysms of fear --
the hiss of soggy onions and the mustard yesteryear.
The sound of stringless cellos burning brings her out in hives
she isn’t sure just why that is – perhaps it’s other lives
that punch and poke and prod her when she’s lying in the sack
and not the cat that’s nestled in the curving of her back.
Her dancing days are over though the fighting’s still to come
there’s many April midnights yet before the day is won
So many books are slaughtered in the war to justify
the New York Times bestseller list though many critics try.