Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Sometimes I think about the ocean.
Soft shell. Meat. Onions. Cheese. Fold.
I look at the deep fryer, floating islands in vegetable oil.
Stainless steel roads, line my insides.
Slowly churning bits of sun.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
I’m in love with a cooper.
Not those giant feet with racing stripes
and cubicle corners.
But the little british miss, who comes on tuesdays.
She’s like a coffee shop on wheels,
I just want to sit and have a conversation.
But she always parks so far away.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. Sauce. Onions. Tomatoes. Sauce.
They’re planning on replacing me, soon.
Apparently, I’m too old for this job.
I philosophize too much.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
The cook has a tattoo of a samurai in prayer.
A demon mask beneath his face.
A sword thrust into his torso.
They call it seppuku, but I don’t know how I know that.
Perhaps I was made in Japan.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I have for a long time by-passed this poem because it did not seem to have a subject that would speak to me, WAS I EVER WRONG! This poem is a minor masterpiece of tone, rhythm, theme and characterization. WHY DID I WRITE MINOR? Expunge that vile word! The surprise I felt reading it is one of the reasons we love poetry. This machine is invested by your words with such dignity, humor and sheer delight in existence that he deserves to be turned into a robot so that he won't be junked. What a triumph of imagination you have wrought!