ploy to force the grocery
to discard airtight jars of sauces
tossed untasted into a bin,
and restock the same;apocalypse at God-knows-when,
when those on shelves, sealed in themselves,
who never seasoned anyone's life,
miss Kingdom Come;when I lose my taste -- for my dog's pirouette
as we set out walking -- for chat with a friend
while making her supper -- for singing, or summer,
or memories of home;when I clutch my pen and can't squeeze out
another poem.
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This poem started from a snarky, self-righteous premise, i.e., that the truths many Americans hold to be self-evident are both false and more important to them than the truths in the Declaration of Independence and the Nicene Creed. That expiration dates matter topped the list and opened opportunities for playing with consonance and puns, as condiments supposedly turn into contaminants overnight, over-the-counter panaceas become poisons, fads fade and thyme's up.
But snarkiness is not a good source for a poem, and if you bend the whole poem to fit the word "contaminant," you're probably distorting your idea. When I gave up on that word this morning, everything clicked into place.
So in my frustration and fear that I'd never finish this poem, I've lived the last stanza for four weeks. This morning was the poem's expiration date: I was prepared to call the month a loss and file the drafts away. I'm so relieved. - WSS
