I was going to write a poem on a plate–

scalloped edges, round, and white.

I thought I’d serve up a helping of delicate diction

lightly seasoned with metaphor and image,

garnished with a spring of symbolism.

I had a recipe, “guaranteed crowd-pleaser” it said,

“they’ll be asking for seconds.”

So I found my mixing bowls and spoons,

Clanked though the utensil drawer

and found the measuring cups.

I was ready. My apron strings were tied.

Recipes like this take time and a precise touch.

I read the instructions carefully

then wondered where I’d gone wrong.

I was certain it was more complicated than this:

“Empty contents into saucepan. Simmer gently.”

Hmph! As simple as that, I thought.

Now…where did I put the saucepan?




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