A Restaurant Called Psyche (Part 3)

With everything confused and unstable,

The hostess herds him to his table.

He tries to wriggle free:

“Don’t do this to me!”

She tightens her grip on his shirt:

“Do you want to get hurt?”

Feeling helpless and defeated,

He sidles in the booth to get seated.

“A waiter will be over in a bit.”

He spitefully aims at the ground to spit.

While looking through the menu,

He thinks he smells a petting-zoo,

And when his eyes follow the scent,

He sees the hostess bent,

Unlocking a cage,

Before walking a goat on stage.

A sharp object glistens in her hand,

And instantly he seems to understand,

But as he screams: “No, you can’t!”

Staff employees intone the following chant:

Please your holiness,
Vanquish his loneliness.
Please your holiness,
Vanquish his loneliness.
Please your holiness,
Vanquish his loneliness.

And at the end of the last note,

The hostess ruthlessly murders the goat.

A profound hushed silence,

Follows the sacrificial violence,

And about 5 minutes later,

He is greeted by his waiter:

“So, what will it be?”

“Um, I don’t think I’m all that hungry.”

A Restaurant Called Psyche (Part 2)

He arrives at the little whole in the wall,

Without any trouble at all.

And he sashays in all nonchalant,

As he enters the restaurant,

Trying to put off the impression,

Of serene self-possession.

But immediately he’s taken aback,

By a happiness that feels out of whack:

Adults letting out guffaws,

Conversations without awkward pause,

Children coloring their place mats,

Fans cheering their fantasy football stats.

And through this heady din,

The hostess shoots him a friendly grin:

“How many will it be?”

“Just me.”

Her face darkens slightly from fear:

“Any friends meeting you here?”

“No, they’re all occupied.”

Something inside her has died:

“Are you absolutely certain of this?”

“Uh, yeah is there a problem Miss?”

The hostess waves down her boss,

And together they do the sign of the cross.

Before setting off an alarm so loud,

It startles the whole dining room crowd.

And suddenly he’s seized by the urge to shout:

“Why didn’t I just get take out!”

A Restaurant Called Psyche (Part 1)

His stomach grumbles,

And on his way to the kitchen he stumbles,

Crying out: “God Damn!”

From stubbing his toe on the door jamb.

Already in a bad mood,

He opens the fridge but finds no food.

In frustration he slams the door,

Didn’t he recently go to the grocery store?

So now on a frantic whim,

He calls his friends to eat out with him.

And when there’s no answer,

It feels as if he’s been diagnosed with cancer.

But even with a terminally ill pride,

His hunger will not subside.

So he googles “cheapest restaurants in town,”

And without scrolling too far down,

Something catches his eye,

That seems like a nice place to try.

It’s a new joint called Psyche,

And with his nerves bound tightly,

He drives to the restaurant alone,

Just he himself and his phone.


It’s a deliciously ironic treat,

When a celebrity gets heat,

From some show on Fox News,

For expressing their political views,

When so many conservative Trumpers,

Who still got “Hillary For Prison” on their bumpers,

Stay hurling petty insults,

SIX months after the election results.