Poetry Food

No McDonald’s wrappers, here.

Only quality sustenance will last through

twenty four hours of versifying.

Already, at hour six, we’ve been through

the four elements, Leonard Cohen,

mountains and Jesus, eternity and sand.

 

Already we’re repeating ourselves in every

stanza, but not attempting a villanelle, and

going back in time. That’s why they call it

a marathon. So I started with cantaloupe.

 

Then sugar snap peas and red, red radishes.

Yes, a radish is a radish is a radish. I can’t wait

to¬†finish off the macaroons, Magruder’s finest.

I had two to test the flavors, raspberry and pistachio.

 

Cookies before noon, not a good idea. So I dip into

the chef salad, a strip or two of cheese, a cracker.

The fancy one with salmon I’ll save until the wee hours,

when only berries and ice cream will really hit the spot.

 

T.S. Eliot I’m not, but perhaps he once got a prompt

to write about cats, and more cats, and that was that.

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