Admiral of cheeses,
placed on high behind the glass,
your steady survey indifferent
to the taunts of creamy sisters
who flaunt in rows for late night shoppers.
Who are they to me?
You reason in my basket and whisper,
humiliate my bread and beer
with lectures of exalted pursuits
and simple daily pleasures
when rhyming poets walked with gods.
I will not martyr you in modern ovens,
nor melt your maturing angles
(and with it my prejudices)
on burning toast,
but slice your flesh and serve you with a cheerful dried fig.
A golden leaf
wrought to purchase
a thousand head of sow,
brought forth to us on the steadied hands of servant maids,
shines in the light
streaming through our crystal glasses and
trills with brittle composite, entices insecure appetites.
But as the painted mouths purse and plane their vowels,
I cannot stand it. The game is out.
I push my plate and silken napkin,
then spit that leaf upon the marbled floor.
I leave the place, my status hanging like a vacuum cleaner bag,
having sucked all that is foul and irksome.
It is for my blasphemous blackened leg I pine!
I pray to be delivered something pure and cured and shaven,
with flaky, soft, sublime persuasion.
To tear (after the moor has squealed his last)
a page from a salty hide;
I’d let it fall silken into my mouth, fuse with my being…
Nothing would separate me from this wonderful thing.
If on arrival late from toil,
you find a pot still clean to boil,
but glancing in the fridge recoil
at all the store left there to spoil.
Your stomach roars for just a crumb,
what once was bread has turned to scum!
So dashing through the door you’ve come
to get some pizza Mmmm…
Looking at your phone you fret
the closing time will soon be met
a shattered dream, a losing bet
a cheesy meal you’ll never get.
But as you slide around the bend
a light there yonder bucks the trend
you make it just before the end
“One large pizza!” Mmmm…
You crispy foe! You offend me
with your voluminous proportions
and leaves that cast no shadow.
Mouthfuls of suspect origin,
wrought in a factory somewhere outside Modena.
Are you gentle siblings showered by a single hose?
Or refugees brought once together?
So tired and limp of disposition,
cracked and broken, designless and destined
to satisfy the nutritional prescriptions of another lunchtime bistro in a leafy suburb.
As you salt and slide around the plate, I wonder:
what would you have told the worm had you lived in his earth?