Friday, October 31, 2014

A New Poem in the Confessional Style About the Passion of Cooking

Confessional
for Mark Alba

When I first met you I was playing bass
For a band that had potential, and I still
Followed that other path
(In a slight way compared to you)
But I did cut out the heart of the artichoke
Using the method you showed me.

We had our obligatory disagreement
In a skyscraper, Atlanta Georgia lawyers
All around us and you asked me to make sure
The curled parsley lacked stem pieces for
The garnish. Andy told me I won’t be asked again

Because I had to dip out to go pick up
The package, at a specific time, a specific place,
And neither of you thought about Atlanta Rush Hour.
Which would have put me too far behind.

You grabbed my (lost) knife kit out of that van.
And you held it for me until I retrieved it.
I briefly explained my situation and apologized
And you apologized
Too

And when I couldn’t show up again because
My Buick Century engine blew
Crossing through Nantahala Gorge
I knew you were disappointed

But at least there was a woman
Who saved me for a time,
And there was an entirely new direction.

And then
There was your talent,
Just waiting to be recognized
Written on the black meringue bark,
Surrounded by black cherries,
And drifted by dehydrated milk foam
Snow.