Lyrical Logic

I was going through my Google Drive this weekend (yes, it’s where I keep the Vault) and stumbled across this poem. “Requiem for the Gold” was the name. I was curious. I didn’t remember writing it. So I opened up the document, read it, and instantly busted out laughing.

I had to have been stoned when I wrote this, but I swear I didn’t change a word of it. I think I was watching The Office episode where Michael burns his foot on the George Forman grill because he wanted bacon in bed. And I have to tell you, I needed this today. I needed this laugh so much.

So, here you are. Here is my poem “Requiem for the Gold”. I don’t remember when I wrote it. I don’t remember why I did. But it needs to be shared with all of you.

The kitchen is a crime scene, 
and the victim is the pride of Ireland. 
A foil-wrapped brick of emerald hills 
sacrificed to a George Foreman god, 
slathered on a man’s delusional "wound" 
like a prayer offered to the wrong altar.

Oh, the grass-fed tragedy! 
The butter that should have melted 
into the crannies of a sourdough slice, 
or pooled in the heart of an ear of corn, 
now serves a foot 
that wasn’t even burned.

It deserved the dignity of the skillet, 
the slow, golden sizzle of a pan, 
not the clinical indignity of being 
"medical grade" lubricant 
for a manager in bubble wrap.

We mourn the Kerrygold, 
the gold standard of the dairy shelf, 
wasted on a man 
who cannot tell the difference 
between a tragedy and 
a grilled cheese disaster.