THERE AIN’T NO CURE FOR THE LUNCHTIME BLUES

Instantiated one day and night,
an alien baby lay before me in a bright, yellow dress
and it said unto me with garbled tongue through crooked teeth,
“Zashoxi – oiwlsh`xcl+uey’’’’*(k3l |,”
which means
“What will you be having for lunch, bald human?”*

I advised the disgusting looking
bundle of extraterrestrial joy
that I planned at midday to feast
upon a fresh garden salad
drizzled with
a zesty vinaigrette
followed by
a large chunk
of dark chocolate.

Baby A. exclaimed,
“Zxplia’poigapl“kdhg^poiauwiue!”
which means
“I think my diaper needs changed.”

When I asked if it could wait
until after I had my meal,
it slowly shook its alien head 
back and forth and
back and forth and
back and forth and
back and forth.

*rough translation. A literal read would be more like, “Warm blood, missing fur – how to satisfy tube needs for sustenance?”