'Abandoned Muffins'

The lights come up on our stage. Seraph stands center, dressed in beatnik gear - complete with beret and sunglasses. There is a figure in a pigeon costume behind him, stage left. The pigeon-person is also wearing a beret and sunglasses, and is, inexplicably, holding a saxophone. It begins to play a mournful dirge on the sax. Stage-right is a third figure in a wombat outfit ( also with beret and sunglasses ) who punctuates the sax with semi-random hits on a set of bongos.

A small Victorian side table is flown from the ceiling. On it is a plate piled with mini-muffins, blue-green with mold.

Seraph :

Egg. Milk. Butter -
melted
With the
heat of

fra
ter
nal

love.

Flour from the thresh-ed wheat
sifted for a festive ...
treat.

With powder ( of the baking kind )
and salt - sprink...
ELD ... into the bowl we find
Under the kitchen skin.

Spatula !

SPAT - U - LA !

Fold till moist -
moist -
moist as the mist-draped morning.
But WHAT.
What MOURNING...
... for you ?
Abandoned muffins ?
Puff-balled bites of gall-stained bakery ?

Who knows your passing ?

The penicillin thread needles through your
mashed-banana
blueberry
heart
and dark
chocolate bones -
confectionery white chocolate blood cell count
PLUMMETS ...
... into cancerous
for
get
full
ness.

No more
pain
where you cats are ...


Seraph pulls a sledge-hammer from behind him, and when a scream which might be rage and might be despair, brings the hammer into a sweeping overhead arc, smashing muffins, plate and table into a mangled twisted wreck.

Silence.

All three bow to scattered, hesitant applause.

Lights fade to darkness.