Vegetables. A poem.

All your hallowed dreams
are burned and charred, or
maybe lightly fricasseed;
cast aside like the hopeful rope
to the refugee always seems to be.

(Like vegetables in the pan,
never really what you want,
but always what you need.)

All your incandescent dreams
are tossed, shaken, turned;
dark thoughts that broil and churn
the pressure cooker of your head,
breeding out-of-season recipes.

(For vegetable dishes, no less, you see.)

All your vainglorious dreams
make absent mockery of fate,
your beliefs shipwrecked on reefs
that grate thoughts to Swiss cheese
or vegetables julienned, like these.

(Like vegetables in the pan,
never really what you want,
but always what you need.)

For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

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