So here, you are, one of my most favorite poems about food. Click the link to hear him read.
Sometimes I'll look in the refrigerator And decide that the mustard is vaguely familiar, And that the jar of Spanish olives is new to me. What's this gathering? The butter And salsa, the two kinds of tortillas And, in back, the fat-waisted Mrs. Butterworth. I'll study the plate of cross-legged chicken, And close the refrigerator and lean on the kitchen counter. Is this old age? The faucet drips. The linoleum blisters when you walk on it. The magnets on the refrigerator crawl down With the gravity of expired coupons and doctor bills. Sometimes I'll roll my tongue in my mouth. Is this thirst or desire? Is this pain Or my foot going to sleep? I know the factory Inside my stomach has gone quiet. My hair falls as I stand. My lungs are bean plants Of disappearing air. My body sends signals, like now: A healthy fleck is floating across my vision. I watch it cross. It's going to attack a virus On the right side of my body And, later, travel down my throat to take care of knee, Little latch of hurt. I swallow three times. I have to help my body parts. Fellas, sour liver And trusty kidney, I'm full of hope. I open the refrigerator. I've seen this stuff before. What's this? The blow dart of bran? Chinese ginger? No, fellas, they're carrots. The orange, I hear, Is good for your eyes.