We All Live in a Yellow Submarine

We all live in a yellow submarine
floating through impressionist water lilies.


The blended blue and green strokes are slowly being caked
in gooey psychedelic yellow and pink ooze,


before Lucy starts to dance a waltz on their petals.
The yellow and green cellophane water lily flowers


sway, rippling the water with bright, crystal lines of white.
Our yellow submarine drifts under a bridge


past tall rockinghorse people.
I wave and politely refuse their offerings of marshmallow pies.


They look too similar to Alice B. Toklas' brownies.


Instead, I walk over to Monet and ask if he's thought about
painting Rouen Cathedral lately.


I love water lilies, but cathedrals have always been more my thing.
He says he painted those yesterday.


He shows me one, and as I stare in awe,
I say that, in the future, where I'm from,
his paintings are definitely here to stay.


I've never seen anything like them in all my life.
I know I'll never lose affection for impressionism.


Then, Monet is sucked up into a whirlpool of
solid-colored cubes and squares and signed urinals.


I wave goodbye as the yellow submarine floats me
towards a wall of paint splotches and lines.


A smoking pipe sticks out of the ground,
but somehow I know that it's not really a pipe.
Maybe that's because it's in a sea of melting clocks.


There's a little boy frozen in black-and-white space holding a hand grenade
on a flat, solid wall of green grass.


I wave, and his face contorts in anger.
Marilyn smiles as I pass the Cambell's soup factory.


Honestly, her lipstick and eyeliner scare me.
I miss Monet and his umbrella lady.


The marmalade skies morph in front of my eyes--
they're no longer a rich orange color,


but instead they're white, and the word SKY
is simply written across them in 48pt. Times New Roman font.


One of my fellow submarine passengers--
I hadn't noticed him before--
explains that we're supposed to use our imaginations
and to picture the sky the way we personally relate to it.


I don't quite buy it.
I really miss Monet now.


But in an instant, a lady starts to float away from our yellow submarine.
"I relate better to life from a cruise ship," she says.
And off she goes.


Then, one by one, everyone floats away.
One guy's on a dolphin,


someone else has a warship, and suddenly
the Cambell's soup factory explodes as a torpedo hits it.


Some other guy rides off on a water horse,
my best friend goes off with some Italian guy on a speed boat.


I look around--
there's only one guy left on the yellow submarine.


We shrug and smile at each other,
turning the wheel back towards our favorite impressionist water lilies.


As we drift back towards marmalade skies, I wonder
about the other forty-two lonely passengers.


Maybe they're all with multi-colored Marilyn
or stuck eating tomato soup for life.


They'll find their own ways, I guess.
After all, wasn't that why they left?

 © 2015   Abby Danfora

Ideas for Sale

The other day,
I found a booth of ''Ideas for Sale''
at a flea market.

I bought a dozen for twenty bucks.
They were new, too.
I never buy second-hand ideas
because second-hand ideas always smell,
and they always have stains.

I thought it was a pretty good deal--
only twenty bucks for twelve ideas--
You know ideas these days,
they're rare, so they usually have to be expensive.

Actually, I started wondering if they were really refurbished ideas.
Maybe they're refurbished
and there's really some defect
or they don't work at all.
If it turns out
that my new ideas are broken,
I'll take them back to the idea stand and get a refund.

Either way,
I bought a dozen ideas for twenty bucks the other day.

 © 2015   Abby Danfora

Snow White's Cujo

"Get out," you say.
You smother me with your cold green eyes
and point to the door and my suitcase.

"Leave now."  Your voice bites.
It crouches behind your tongue
and leaps out in a wave of shouting.

Your lipstick is bright red,
the color of Snow White's apple.
For a moment, you remind me of Cujo.

You snarl.
Your wet fur rises on end.
You crouch to attack.

You inch forward.
The blood drips off your fur
and onto the kitchen floor.

"I'm leaving."
It's not as if I care to stay here.
I never liked animals much anyways.


 © 2015   Abby Danfora

Some Guy in the Park

There's some guy in the park.
The pigeons throw bread at him sometimes,
but then he poops on their feet
and they flap him away with their wings.

Sometimes, when he's really hungry,
he'll follow unsuspecting pigeons around
and shout until they give him food.
He's a real creeper.

Still, he's not nearly as bad as the lady in my kitchen.
She's been there for years.
I don't set traps anymore, though.
I've learned to leave her alone ever since she bit me.

Every evening,
I find her crawling on the dirty dishes.
Mornings, I come downstairs
and find teethmarks in the bread I use for toast.

I've been thinking,
maybe I should take her to the park
to meet the weird pigeon-chaser guy.
Maybe they'll hit it off.

At least it would get her out of my bread.

 © 2015   Abby Danfora