Making a Toasted Cheese Sandwich
The following is a loosey-goosey piece of free verse that I daresay may be older than many of our NitLetters. Dating back to 1999 (yep–2 decades), it was the result of speculation that a topic of a poem can be just about anything, no matter how mundane.
Making A Toasted Cheese Sandwich
When you have nothing
the philosophers tell you
to be happy with
the little you have
take delight in the simple things
philosophers say
Well, I have a slice of cheese
and two slices of bread
what could be simpler
or cheaper
than that
I'd prefer wheat bread
healthy whole grain
with a hearty bite
and some Swiss
neutral like the country
and therefore harmless
though subtly nutty
and not as pully
as mozza-pizza
but snappy enough
to melt into what
product researchers call
"mouth-feel"
What I have
is a square
of store-brand synthetic
processed stuff
that's tasteless
and bland
and therefore one
hundred per cent
American
imposed between a pair
of machine-cut sponges
to pop into
the toaster-oven
That's right I'm making
this the old-fashioned way
not like the greasy-spoon staple
drowned in margarine
and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts
and called
"grill" cheese
Nor would I be crazy
enough to consider
the wacky Heloise-style
hint of wrapping it in foil
and cooking it at the same time
as doing the ironing
nobody's that efficient
and besides -- what about the crumbs
escaping from the Reynolds' Wrap armour
and mixing with the
inadvertently-washed Kleenex
in the pockets
of your pants?
(As if anybody still irons these days!)
No, when it comes to
toasting cheese sandwiches
I'm a purist though not a true
vegan, having been known
to consume your occasional fish
the communal omelet
and of course
cheese
So I'm standing guard
in front of the countertop appliance
that's like an abandoned wife
whose husband left her for
a younger, flashier microwave
and I'm watching the coil
turn red
in embarrassment or anger
You'd think I were some snooty
chef from the Cordon Bleu
fussing over a feast
for some fastidious dignitary
the way this social-climbing sandwich
has commanded my attention
But you've got to watch
you've got to know
the precise moment
when to flip
or one side burns
and the other side stays pale
and the cheese, inside,
doesn't even warm up,
let alone melt
and you can bet
somebody will complain
about the crumbs
on the floor
you've got to watch
Though I'd much prefer
to look out the window
and see the sky stretch
and change into its evening wear
that isn't quite basic black
and definitely not blue
and in the brush to catch
a glimpse of furry beings
sniffing the twilight air
while hustling for a meal
they can afford
to be curious and brave
now that it's dusk
and the sportsmen have all
gone home or to a diner
for a quick beer
and a burned burger
There are no hunters left
except for Orion
amid the sharp and witty stars
and the Moon
rumored to be made of green cheese
playing Toastmaster to the night
and raising a shimmering glass
that spills a silver spotlight
over the dance floor of the field
which in the cold morning
will melt into bits
of glittering confetti,
these frosty crumbs
of moonlight in the grass
with the Cosmos taking its
simple delight
in the things it has
both little and big
though when you're talking
about the Universe
and its timeless banquet
size doesn't matter
while I'm inside --
in the kitchen --
toasting cheese
