lawn and sidewalk where they lay
And heard their rustle and their crunch,
(Three hours ago I’d downed my lunch),
I sniffed the air, a very hound,
Alert to every smell and sound,
The musty odor of the mums,
The chuffing engine’s distant drums,
And saw ripe apples hanging late,
Too high for me to depredate.
A block from home, I pause, I freeze.
The smell of bread is on the breeze.
I clasp my “Dick and Jane” securely,
For I understand most surely
That wheat when ground is more than flour:
It’s endowed with mystic power.
Baking bread in Bombay, Rome,
Or Salt Lake City signals “home.”
Rye
You can serve it slice by slice.
You can pour it over ice.
It goes well with ham or soda,
Vermouth, corned beef, bitters, gouda.
Loaf or bottle, worth a try.
With rye you’ll never go awry.
Rice
“I wouldn’t leave Beijing,” said Mao,
“For all the rice in Sacramento.”
You see, the Chairman clearly knew
A fact that’s shared by very few:
More rice grows in California than
In all of China and Japan.
It was brought here, to be specific,
To labor on the Southern Pacific,
And then, forsaken, had to stay
In Hanford and in San Jose.
It now speaks English fluently
And sends its kids to USC.
Leafs
Sotweed
One leaf should now be doing time,
Life sentence for its horrid crime,
Its disregard for humankind,
Cruelties that numb the mind.
Sotweed dulls the keenest brain
And leaves behind on teeth vile stain,
A rancid odor on the breath—
Tobacco is the herb of death.
Yet as I pen this morbid dirge,
Struggling with the awful urge
To suck in nicotine and tar,
I’m puffing on a huge cigar.
Lettuce
When it’s sliced, I cannot bear it!
Purists always gently tear it
Delicately with their fingers,
Avoiding acrid taste that lingers
From the touch of any metal
On this tender, light green petal.
But lettuce seldom gets its due.
There are really very few
Who eat the leaf ‘neath stuffed tomato
Or salad, tuna or potato.
Left on the plate, wilted, oily,
It’s often nothing but a doily.
Cabbage
A thoroughgoing democrat,
In blue collar and hard hat,
Cabbage has a union card.
On Saturday, he mows his yard,
Watches football Monday night,
Has never missed a major fight;
Subscribes to People, scans the Times
(For weather, scores, and heinous crimes).
Mr. Cabbage is sub dig—
Some would say, “A swine, a pig!”
But this pungent vegetable,
Leader of the plebeian rabble,
Has potential, without doubt:
He’s incipient sauerkraut.
Magnoliophyta
Okra
(at the request of Jim Corder)
Family mallow’s diverse stock
Includes both okra and hollyhock,
Althea shrub, and, indeed,
Rose of Sharon, and velvetweed.
When you served your okra gumbo,
You undoubtedly didn’t know
That your soup was pleonastic—
Rich and spicy and bombastic.
As the dictionary tells you,
Gumbo’s “okra” in Bantu.
Consider, then, this irony:
Okra came across the sea
To pick that field, to cut that cane,
To labor on in woe and pain,
While its cousin sat in state,
King Cotton, mallow’s line enate.
Matters
