He Knew His Onions Poem by Mark Heathcote

He knew his onions as much as anyone.
The taste of something caramel sweet and sour
Wholesome and delicious you want to devour
Season and flour fry in some churned olive oil butter.
He knew his onions as much as anyone.
People envied every plaited crop.
The crows didn't immediately worm out.
But by the end of every autumn and early winter,
What was left had already begun to rot.
He knew his onions but not a lot about anything else.
And in turn, one by one, all the layers hardened
Into a crust at first, then internally began to ferment.
And by the end, like the world all around him,
There was nothing much more left.
But a handful of dust and twine
And his musty old jackets of quite frankly timeless regret.