I mean to eat my Spinach, I do, I really do.
I know it’s really good for me,
but I’d rather eat my shoe.
It’s full of things all good for me,
and it’s served with regularity
from Limerick to Haiku.

Some like it served with vinegar,
some like it served in cream,
some think it’s lover’s messenger,
some think it makes you dream…
It makes me scream.

I sit here at my table staring;
into the same green as sea foam,
into the same texture the mariner saw
before he hung the albatross
without a drop to drink.
Into the same brown-green the loam of Eire
fueled the fires seen upon the hills of recompense.

I must be dense to stare so,
at that which must go slithering
down my gullet.

When frozen,
spinach-brick-green grows alliterative,
as too grow the rushes so
solid as the lump and thump of footed meter rhymes,
seeming crimes to speakers of verse free.
But look at me looking,
booking time till I can get down and play,
wasting day by staring, stalling, staring
at my slowing greening plate.

Holding my nose,
tongue tip-toeing,
here the first fork goes,
motivation owing, knowing
what’s good for me,
(and that I can be free of dinner table),
able to run free in glee…

The damn stuff tastes like poetry.

02/19/2005

Posted on 02/20/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers