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Butterfly Wings and Isms
He held a tray piled high with isms
She watched him intently
Mesmerized by his dark eyes
Turning away only to mash the bread
Of her butterfly wing sandwich
Smeared with mayonnaise of crushed pearls
Hearing a crash, she returned her attention
She watched as the isms shattered on the ground
Leaving only surrealism, minimalism, and postmodernism intact
The waiter pranced around
Enjoying the lighter load
Cutting his trouser leg on a jagged bit of traditionalism
Nearly tearing his flesh
Smiling--he continued handing out his hors d’oeuvres
