by Rob Littler
The lady ordered room service for breakfast that morning--
“Looks to be two poached eggs and English muffin toast right there?”
Bacon had to have been crumbled over the yolk
Because there was just so little of it. But It was
A pretty picture of what perhaps had been savored less than two hours before
Expiring. Tarragon lingered in the nostrils, at once sweet and fatty in the Hollandaise
Richness. Everyone simultaneously agreed without speaking on the probability
Of smoky paprika powdered atop perfectly. The only argument, though never made,
Was regarding bits of ham and tomato, which look similar, partially
Digested and can be easily confused. The greens were definitely spinach, unanimously.
“God-Damn it! Eat it! It all gets mixed up in your stomach anyway!” She remembers
Her father yelling at her about being upset that her beets made her mashed potatoes pink
Or her salad dressing dripped into her special mealtime chocolate milk drink and there was nothing
To do but cry at the catastrophe, saying to herself silently as she swallowed each bite finally
Force fed to her, “My tummy doesn’t have to taste it all mixed up though.”
She learned early the art of letting go of reason in the face of causing his crescendo
Of Justification. She decided she alone could and would have intelligent conversation,
And even now, something was making her return to those Spinach greens, a forensic
Sensibility. Was that vinegar she smelled? Maybe she should have a closer look
At the firmness of what’s been salvaged of the egg whites.
Before leaving for lunch she briefed the investigators needing reliable timelines,
Accepting the compromise of demarcation where no real division exists. She often
Mused privately in those meetings how we are all naked underneath our clothes, and walls
Of homes are so thin; just consider the space within and the infinity extending just outside.
But it isn’t comfortable to try and see so far just to find that vision needs to also be wide.
Posted on 05/26/2018
Copyright © 2019 Rob Littler
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 05/26/18 at 05:45 PM|
A literary/culinary delight Rob. Which reminds me...it's time for lunch.
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 05/27/18 at 10:56 AM|
A wonderful compilation of culinary thought and happenstance. Love the last stanza particularly, it waxes so up my philosophical alley.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 05/27/18 at 07:44 PM|
Truly a unique theme and approach going way beyond an autopsy and childhood eating angst to that last philosophical stanza. This one is in the details and you give them generously. Well done.
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 05/28/18 at 03:58 PM|
The details, not quite arousing my taste buds, lead us on a little journey - yes a culinary one but also a detecting, forensic one. You kept me guessing, at first imagining you passing by what was left of a room service tray laying in the hallway outside a hotel room. But then each additional stanza filled me in and kept me marching to the end. Thanks for the trip, Rob.