airplane food and hospital food and things warmed up from cans
feeds nothing but the belly tho it's cooked in copper pans.
i used to dream of brunches that would thrill my inner soul;
of dishes fused with saffron, set aflame with liqueurs droll.
cheeses of distinction and fine artisanal bread
and livers from those geese that only acorns are force-fed.
but since i am a bachelor and don't bring home much loot
my cooking is so basic that it tastes like some old boot.
my meatloaf is pedantic and my pasta falls apart,
and for making my own mayonnaise I haven't any heart.
perhaps someday i'll rob a bank and feast on courtly quail
before they can catch up with me and toss me into jail.
O death where is thy victory, o grave where is thy sting?
it's in the fact I can't tell squab from common chicken wing . . .
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