PARODY Poem: Straitlaced to a T, by Meera Parasuraman

My notebook aslant,
I write,
Or rather, inscribe,
My pen impressing
Its ideas
Upon the yielding fibers
Of the pages
Beneath
The one I am writing on.
I hear her heavy tread,
Then I sense her pause,
Mid-stride, next to me.
My peripheral vision
Catches the myopic glint
Of a gold bangle.
Then, her hands
Turn my book,
In a half-pendulum swing,
So that it sits straight,
Like her,
Spine erect.

My test comes back,
In a day,
Corrected.
I open the book,
And my back stiffens.
There sit my T’s,
Crossed in straight red lines,
Their scrolled, curlicued ends snipped.
Now, I not only have to
Mind my P’s and Q’s,
But cross my T’s as well,
The ‘propah’ way,
Like my teacher’s back,
Ramrod straight.

Coffeeganger or Coffeedouble

The mug twirls in the microwave.
The tea bag inside swells,
Releasing a light brown hue
Into the hot water,
That soon darkens into a deep golden brown.
I think of the infusion pump
Upstairs, that screams in protest
Whenever an air bubble appears
In the IV bag or line.
The bubbles in the tea
Don’t make anything scream though.

I pull out the mug to add some milk,
When I hear a ‘Hello!’
To my left, bright, cheery, like the face
That peers at me.
Cheery face decides to go cutesy.
‘Sooo, is there coffee in these?’
It asks,
Pointing to two flasks
On the counter.
I nod yes, absent-mindedly.

‘Sooo, can I have a cup?’
Asks the face.
‘Oh!’ I say.
‘I am not the coffee lady!’
Years of having to explain myself
Make my weary words drip,
In minimalist mode,
Drip, like coffee.

I start pointing fingers:
My thumb twerks towards the staircase:
‘Patient!’ I say.
It then jerks in my direction:
‘Family!’
My right hand points to the microwave:
‘Making myself tea!’
My left hand gestures towards

The Real Cafeteria Lady:
‘She can help you!’

The face shows dismay, shock,
Je ne sais quoi,
And floats away.

‘Hi!’ says a voice.
I turn, and see a girl
Peering at something to my right.
A little board, bearing a flotilla
Of coffee flavors and cup sizes,
Written in chalk.
‘I’d like a decaf, large,
With hazelnut cream and
A swirl of caramel on top,’
She says.

I do my not-the-coffee lady show and tell routine.
I am back in kindergarten.
She drifts away, still uncaffeinated.

I grab my tea and run for the elevator,
Molting, sloughing off the sheath
Of Dispenser in Charge,
To become
Dispenser at Large.

BTW, I do drink coffee sometimes.
I like mine brown,
Like me.