Chopped
The
one with spiky blonde hair is annoying,
but,
boy, can she cook.
Give
her a green, a juice, a cereal, and an organ,
and
she’ll whip up her Cider Marinated
Broiled
Ox Liver, Crusted with Cheerios,
on
a Bed of Arugula. It’s the winner
and
it looks delicious.
No,
it doesn’t, really. It looks
like
someone doing the best they can
with
what they have been given.
And
this has been turned into competition;
who
can make the least worst mess of it.
The
panel casts stern judgment,
as
if this is to be taken seriously.
Who
knows if the chefs really do?
But
there does seems to be real pain
in
the faces of the vanquished,
and
smug satisfaction for the victor
And
what of we, who are watching?
What
do we get out of this?
A
release from boredom, some pleasant sensations,
pangs
of hunger, and a sense of time wasted.
This,
I imagine, is how most poems are created,
the
disparate ingredients of an ordinary day:
ennui,
birdsong, desire and regret.
Loyalhanna
Review - 2012
