Meal-in-a-Box (Pass the Wine, Please)

After seeing so many ads for how I could be my own chef with ingredients picked out just for me and a few hundred-thousand others, I was ready to order at 50% off my first shipment.

But wait. I had to choose whether I wanted shellfish, meat, vegetarian, vegan, non-GMO, organic, natural, low-sodium, gluten-free, or surprise-me. Instead I picked up the phone and dialed Pizzas Are Us, poured a glass of healthful red wine, and composed this ditty about my vexation of too many choices with these boxed ingredients for a meal. (The names have been changed to protect the innocent.):

House Chef, Blue Chef,

isn’t there a Wine Chef?

Day Basket, fruit basket,

I think-I’m getting-looped basket.

Hi Fresh, farm fresh,

I really want a pizza fresh.

Carnivore, herbivore,

are there any fries du jour?

Black Apron, burnt apron,

too-close-to-the-stove apron.

Gluten free, cage free,

I’m-terribly-confused free.

Chop, stir, flip, stir,

the-meat-fell-on-the-floor stir.

Peas roll, carrots roll,

another glass of wine roll.

Fast food, quick food,

I-really-need-my-fix food.

And so the doorbell rang, and my boxed pizza came to me, cooked and piping hot, and my gleaming appliances and perfectly pressed apron stayed clean.

Cheers!

AN ODE TO COFFEE

Listening to the music

from the radio next door,

my head is pounding;

can’t take it no more.

 

It ain’t so much grammar

the singers do lack,

but the incessant thumping

like a hard head-whack.

 

This poem don’t rhyme good,

nor does it seem sane,

’cause I need my infusion

of strong coffee today.

 

 

 

 

NEVERMORE

Once upon a morning after,

while I pondered Hershey wrappers,

candy roiled inside of me

as I recalled All Hallow’s Eve.

A toga made from old bed-clothes

hadn’t quite covered–so I froze.

The wreath I’d made for my head

caused a rash that seemed to spread.

And so I scratched and retched some more,

crawling slowly ‘cross the bare wood floor,

resolving thus: “Nevermore.”

Happy Halloween!