Our Refrigerator to Søren Kierkegaard, Chef De Garde Manger
       

I work so hard to keep the water away.
Not a drop of liqu idation floats
my boat, but the thick-ribbed ice
of lettuces you big-banged from the truck,
the red entropy of endives, speechless
green spinach (limp frogs caught in their throats?)
ship my naked sides inside me, Søren,
with either oar in a rotten state. Hey,
I'm open to the mise en place of seems
but the on-light-off-light door of is is shut.

Brassica oleracea, O steamed broccoli,
forget the validity of marriage
to medium dice. I'd bring the florets.
With a cold shoulder to the kitchen
sink, engagements can be broken, dead
ringers for an egg, of course; but, really,
are you going to yoke infinity?
Even the stars (no spring leeks) have sprung a leak,
pouring out in radiant cyclades their tears.
Not everyone can always be so cold.

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Copyright © 2015 Scott Draper All rights reserved
from Vallum
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission