Poem 34

I tried reading this at an open mic poetry shindig and ended up sucking like a reverse air tunnel. Still, here's an after-the-fact audio recording in hopes that I'll eventually get better at reading my own poems.

Morning and late evening
he's busied for hours,
straining, peeling, mincing, mixing,
and breading with flour.
His items are stale,
shelves stacked with old bread and brown kale,
prepared daily and put out for sale
for monied men to devour.

In the evenings he stands
stirring, sauteeing, garnishing,
and tossing food in pans.
His flavors are astonishing:
clever combinations of old ingredients,
always traditional and obedient,
flavorful and grandiloquent,
the work of skilled hands.

At night he reads Chaucer and Marcus Aurelius
and mixes them with bits of Plato
and sprigs of Leviticus.
His process is the same, but a bit slow,
as he rolls out his arguments
on the finest of parchment,
smelling faintly of fondant
and drinking wine as he goes.

His customers never complain
about the food they're eating,
even those who leave with stomach pains
and leftovers they save for reheating.
Then one day, at a quarter to seven,
Gordon Ramsay walks in,
brow furled and cursing to high heaven,
shouting, "Bland!" and screaming.

2/2/11 update:

That last stanza has to go. It doesn't fit. I'll revise soon.