Following, is the most recent of my literary inspirations. To understand and appreciate it fully, I must give you the context. The shapeless blob over to my left is, contrary to what the first glance may surmise, pizza dough. I made dinner a few nights ago and after wrestling with this herbal ball of elasticity, I was able to produce this sorry shape. Had my recently wedded sister LK., been in the kitchen, I know this would not have happened. Despite claiming to "prefer baking over regular cooking," L.K is a wiz with pizza dough. I truly cannot explain her talent (neither can she since she certainly does not practice!), I can only say that it is a gift. After considering this fact and after staring at my pitiful doughy disk, a random rhyme popped into my cranium.
The following poem is dedicated to L.K and her mastery of pizza dough. This sad and melodramatic testimony of my pizza has one fault in that it does not have a proper title. After reading this tale with the passion and drama due it, I would ask for suggestions for the proper title. At the conclusion of writing such a piece I am, shall I say, at loss for words?
(Note: when I refer to "your" I am referring to L.K. herself)
The floured hands and dusted board
Kindled in my doughy soul unbridled fear.
No words describe that terrors sword,
Except the moan, “ Wish you’d been here!”
At first, with docile hands, seeming soft,
She plied me in a mound.
Then without warning, tossed aloft,
Then calloused knuckles pounded down.
My herbal epidermis broke.
My misshapen form, friendless and alone.
With one last and heartless stroke,
She me slapped down upon the stone.
Your tender hands would not have pulled
My delicate frame asunder.
No! All your faculties you would’st have culled
And not have made such blunders.
And though by now it is too late.
Lift not thy culinary nose and sneer.
Tis true, I cannot change my fate,
Yet I say again, “Wish you’d been here!”
Kindled in my doughy soul unbridled fear.
No words describe that terrors sword,
Except the moan, “ Wish you’d been here!”
At first, with docile hands, seeming soft,
She plied me in a mound.
Then without warning, tossed aloft,
Then calloused knuckles pounded down.
My herbal epidermis broke.
My misshapen form, friendless and alone.
With one last and heartless stroke,
She me slapped down upon the stone.
Your tender hands would not have pulled
My delicate frame asunder.
No! All your faculties you would’st have culled
And not have made such blunders.
And though by now it is too late.
Lift not thy culinary nose and sneer.
Tis true, I cannot change my fate,
Yet I say again, “Wish you’d been here!”
Copyright July 2008
