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Recipe For Poem
There’s a poem sitting inside my fridge.
I put it there, hoping it would sprout
a few shoots of poetic intent like the
Onion I found that had quite unobtrusively planted
itself and was thriving in its mesh metal basket.
I condemned my poor onion to a quiet grave of black plastic
A vague thought of someday composting a eulogy
But what to do with my poem, sitting so quietly
in its tupperware binding blindly staring back at me?
(It has no eyes) but could still follow the unfortunate onion.
My poem blinks a couplet (Perhaps I should give it eyes?)
Wondering if it will be grilled today aside the prosidy and stance
Or sautéed with a wry twist of lemon and splashes of measure and thyme.
Do I serve it with density and potatoes?
Or on a fresh bed of aragula nestled snugly against
a heap of consonance cluster.
My poem winks (it now has eyes)
Slyly suggesting that it might be better in the morning
served with poached eggs and a glass of
freshly squeezed sibilants.
My poem whispers (I have given it eyes so why not Voice?)
In the limited first-person punctuated by celery’s satisfying Crunch
That it may be most excellent between slices of warm
onomatopoeia with honey mustard.
I fondly contemplate the fresh green shoots springing
from my scribbled poem, and think maybe
it shouldn’t go the way of the onion
Though I am not yet sold on having it for lunch
Even if it is peppered with idiom and salted from a
shaker of scheme.
My poem now yells (I have given it lungs)
like a hot pepper plosively daring me to pop it in my mouth
But since I have not given it ears it can’t hear me
dragging out a ceramic pot and filling it with dirt
Nothing but a quick gulp of protest as it is
(somewhat unceremoniously) placed in its new home,
sprinkled with allegory from my watering can and
put in the sun until next week’s stab at syntagma.