Chopped

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