The other day I tried writing a poem. I hadn’t tried doing this since seventh grade. It was significantly easier in seventh grade. The poem I wrote was about a kitchen:
The summer comes and visits thrice Of kneaded dough and earthy spice The pans lay on onioned sheets Splattered with tomato leaps A mixing spoon betrays the care Of single dreams of pleasing fare The kitchen hears, the cook confides The oven heats, the guests arrive Quick in it goes! With hopes full rest On tender hopes of moistened vests Company mingles with friendly din Alone resets the scraps and tins The night it comes in shades of blur Of forks delight in what is served An overcoming ache of day Comes to a close in laughter made With thankfulness he does return White soldier worn with bits of burn And mottled plates, uneven piles A funny red between the tile Once more it stands to offer ear As scuffles out the guests of dear A quiet friend; he cleans it nice The summer comes and visits thrice
I guess I was thinking of what it would be like to make a lasagna and inviting guests over to eat it. I’ve never done either, but I have eaten lasagna so I must have figured that was close enough.