September 10: Hunger, Matt Gavin Frank, "Sprouts"

I just finished my dinner.  Cheese and crackers.  Some cough drops.  A bag of mixed berry fruit bites.  Not really exciting.  I do have a chocolate croissant, but I'm saving it for my wife as a surprise tonight.

I have a poem about food tonight.  Among other things, Matt Gavin Frank is a foodie.  He's worked in the food industry, written about food, and makes a mean pulled pork sandwich.

Saint Marty doesn't like Brussels sprouts that much, but he loves this poem.

Sprouts

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

I like Brussells sprouts.  There is something 
even about them, as opposed to erratic, as opposed
to odd.  Even when alone, they are double.  Like
one eye.  We see what we're used to.

Architecturally-correct, each is a habitat
with staircases.  Typically, I add only gray
salt (from Brittany), and cut it down the middle
with a butter knife.  I always expect to find a fly
at its center, looking up at me with red eyes,
indignant that I've halved the work of its mother.

I eat their cores.  I think of the brain
and its leaves.  At rare times, like after
the Urbana chorus of cellos, or that time
when my brother, Ronald, went through
the windshield, I added the mustard.

With butter, salt, and bacon, they're not bad