Two Haiku

Pasta eggs - couscous

Flying fish eggs - tobiko

Both stick to tables

Couscous sticks to hands

Tobiko to the table

Finding both in hair

Ode to a Toddler Plate

Your four chambers make me feel

Infinitely safe and calm and appeal

To the OCD within that does remark,

"Ne'er shall your food embark

To touch, to mix, to intermingle."

The effect of this makes me tingle

Because I like my food

Divided, conquered, and subdued.

Each course in its own spot -

Here the peas, there the fish, and here the tater tot.

I cannot fathom the plate or bowl -

As if the identity of each food you stole

And combined to render them much more

Than the parts - But what are they for

If not to enjoy in their own singular expression?

All this mixing fills me with a deep depression

For I love the carrot, the peas, the fish stick - all!

Yet if they touch on my plate I'll simply fall

Out of my chair and onto the floor in a snit.

This will provoke in my mother quite a fit

Because about her food she has some sensitivity.

I hate to provoke apoplexy with my proclivity.

So I beg you: around meal time have some sense,

And keep all my courses in their respective compartments.

Cheers,

Sam

Ode to Purple Rubber Gloves

This is the oil after the zucchini fritters.



Ode to Purple Rubber Gloves


Kitchen gloves you saw me through
Mounds of dishes and piles of goo -
That muck of leftovers and stinking rot,
Especially for all of that I got
You oh so many moons ago.
But now away! to that place below
Cities, parks, fields, and promontories.
Yes, the landfills chock-full of stories,
Old hubcaps, diapers, love letters, and plastic.
Now I have to go buy a new pair. Blast it!

Love Letter to Soup

To Soup, My Dearest:

I always want you nearest

In the winter time.

Your earthy elixir

Surely will fix 'er

Up when she's cold.

I like you with meat

Or a few peppers - sweet -

And always with garlic.

A handful of beans

Definitely means

You will be hearty.

A couple potatoes

To go with my tomatoes

Is synchronicity.

For the dregs: bread

Because the bowl surely led

Straight to this moment of sopping.

Ode to an Unfinished Lunch, by Sam

I sing to thee forlorn,

Oh egg and bread of corn.

I care not to test or savor

And I see this denial is out of favor

With my mother, who is vexed,

Or at least perplexed

By how I operate on calories so few

And how I routinely reject even you,

Oh, muffin and egg dressed with cheese,

As Mom begs and embarrasses us both with "please."

See, this is not a rejection of you -

Not a running away, but a running to

Freedom! To rolling about on the rug

And smearing dirt on my adorable mug.

I wish not to pain you so,

But, really, I must go

go

go.