Queso

There were all kinds of excellent cheeses. Provolone was the favorite, and Jackrabbit on a Silver Platter. Market fresh heads of iceberg lettuce, blood red tomatoes glistening with fine droplets of water. Swordfish. Tart pasta salad, creamy pasta salad, cold linguini, angelfish. Rainbow trout that glittered, showing his bones. Head cheese, circus cheese. Things dancing on cheese.

There were bird dances and fish dances beside the cheese dances. On the crackers, on the silvery tableclothes, on the ceiling if anyone would have admitted it. Quails sang. They did. There were four pheasants, two grouse, a peacock and a robin. The robin felt left out, but he was a dancing fool.

Demigods and particles and pot-sticking barnacles fell into purple rages of jealousy, but they could not compete with the cheese. It was white and yellow and apricot, azure and green--it wore red plastic coats. Swiss cheese, German cheese, Colby cheese. Cheese with glinting knives emerging from their soft bodies. The knives looked wicked, but they were cheese knives, so they were welcome. The cows weren’t welcome, though they had made it all possible. Many goats came unexpectedly, but were thrown out without ceremony. Cheese is rather ungrateful.

The cheeseball was satisfied to sit in the center and gloat, despite his one hundred crab legs so neatly provided. He figured it wouldn’t be fair, since they weren’t really his. Cheese may be ungrateful, but it’s fair. It relies upon its own graces. The cheeseball was fabulous. The finger sandwiches adored him. He was popular with the salmon.