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the joyous partner the microwave
it has become my chef
alas not quite my mother's hand
but for its swiftness of foot
there is no other
yes i survive on the TV dinner
oh dear Lord i have shown my age
frozen until my vittles need calling
it is a world of the chophouse
from a hashery where most dine
no fuss, just plain celerity needed
those exquisite tastes, hidden within
lucious noodles and sauces
from white to red
and should that become a disaster
there is always ketchup
Siracha, Hot Mustard, Orange, Honey
it is almost endless for Asia
the frozen dinner section sublime
those long rows packaged and waiting
almost a walk in the Lourve of paintings
as you ogle those reflections in frosted doors
i become a child on Christmas morning
Master Chef in TV Dinnerland
the trick is in the additions
a tad of salsa, or perhaps sour cream
of course scads of butter on taters
A1 or H57 sauce on the meatloaf, or Salisbury
in the vegetable department a loverly
chopped, ready-to-go medley
of onion, celery, and carrot
jalapenos, green chilis, olives
come already in cans chopped
simply sprinkle on at last minute
but the greatest joy held in my heart 
is when i place the holy offering
i would never eat, retrieved from garbage
into that loverly microwave
always upon a microwave-safe plate
gently affixing an impediment to door
wait for that loverly moment
when that pesky fly enters to dine
slam the door in most haste
hit that 3-minute button
nothing more civilized than well done
then wait for that pure joy
when the whistling, whirling stop 
light goes off, and the wonderful
ding, ding, ding of a job well done
let the philosophers and theologians
go on, and on about revenge
but i vote it is best when microwaved
loverly i say

   OKC   7/01

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