Pat Jones

On a Whim

by Peter Austin

He tells her half his entrail has been bypassed,
His stomach shrunk, to (one hand shows its size);
“I’m thunderstruck,” she quips: “what time’s the fly-past?”
Another table’s order in her eyes.
When, hurriedly, she brings him half a bowlful
Of carrot soup, with crackers on the side,
He swears a solemn oath her eyes are soulful,
Set, Nefertiti-like, divinely wide.

“It’s noon; we’re understaffed,” she says, con moto,
And see? — one pair of hands — or are you blind?”
He pulls out a computer-blended photo
(Before and after): would she like it signed?
They take a plane to Reno, on a whim,
And now, I hear, she’s bigger round than him.

Peter Austin lives with his wife and three daughters in Toronto, where he teaches English at Seneca College. Over a hundred of his poems have been published, in magazines such as The New Formalist, Contemporary Sonnet, The Lyric, The Barefoot Muse, Iambs & Trochees, The Chimaera, The Shit Creek Review, The Pennsylvania Review, 14 by 14, The Raintown Review, Lucid Rhythms and Road not Taken. He also writes plays.