Where Has All The Mayo Gone?
Hungry late I clank around
the kitchen for a snack.
A pickle first and then why not
I peel apart a pack
of luncheon meat, some Swiss, a leaf
of something limp and wan.
And now oh no the lid's on tight
but look--the mayo's gone.
It feels like only yesterday
I parked my father's car
and peeked at other shopper's carts
and tootled to a jar
for slathering on hot dogs
and for dolloping on frites--
there's loads of foods whose fatty goodness
My pumpernickel won't go down.
It's like a warning bell,
the chilly clink of stainless steel
on glass. I know it well.
And wonder under nibbles
if at bottom human lives
aren't always scraping empty jars
with tips of pointless knives.
I'm more a mustard person myself, but I will admit to being amused by this poem nevertheless. It's classic close observation leading to a more general insight. I especially like 'tips of pointless knives.'
Pino Coluccio is a contemporary Canadian formal poet. This is from his first book of 2005. He has a new book of poems out from Biblioasis titled Class Clown.
Jennifer is featuring a great W. B. Yeats poem this week.