Escape

Take me to that place

where I’m perpetually thin

and I wear designer clothes

and one dog didn’t poop

behind the designer dining 

room table where the maid 

didn’t find it for several days

and the other dog didn’t barf 

on the designer chair last night.

But this is Escape Island.

I’ll have to wait to fire the maid 

until she cleans up the poop 

and the designer chair.

Then I have to fire the dogs.

All while I have a hangover

from a three-day party 

on my yacht.

This doesn’t sound like

much of an escape.

Does it?

published in Medusa's Kitchen