Friday, February 24, 2017

I think good poems—if you can call them good—
are written by people who care so deeply
about everything around them that they’re
almost paralyzed. I think those people are like
the proverbial squabs who’ve inadvertently
dined on arsenic-ridden succotash during
ill-advised raids on one or more seaside
picnics featuring one or more picnickers
attempting to do away with one or more
other picnickers via said deadly corn
and lima bean concoction—wherein the fateful
side dish symbolizes “things of the world”
as tempting fare; wherein arsenic stands for
the mesmerizing hold romantic suffering
exerts on the most emotionally vulnerable;
and wherein squabs are sweetheart kids who,
good with words, deft in action, hyperalert,
weirdly vigilant, and desiring to document it all,
inadvertently eat or lick the most apparently
delectable picnic item upon which they
and their fellow young domestic pigeons (poet
friends) have swooped, and oh buddy, they pay
the price in the form of good poems, and
publishable—fine fodder for literary websites.
They pay the price in the form of a life-
changing delusion that everyone’s listening.

• • •

2 Responses to “Succotash”

  1. Edward Nudelman Says:

    Love this. Definitely a two glass fine red wine poem

    Sent from my iPhone

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