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Food Indigo

by F.J. Bergmann


Alfred Hitchcock gave a dinner party.

Carefully prepared for each stunned guest,

the entire meal was blue. “This is no jest,”

he intoned. “Eat up! I hope you all have hearty

appetites; I shall feel quite offended

(as will my chef) if you do not consume

this azure feast—you may also presume

your Hollywood careers to be forthwith ended.”


No Sapphire City trick of colored lenses:

true-blue roast beef, cobalt fries, turquoise blue

ice cream—unnatural, an ominous hue.

“Dye—or die?” they must have wondered as they took

that first bite, then another; exchanged a look

that said, eloquently, “He’s lost his senses.”