That Salad Went Right Through Me

That Salad Went Right Through Me I've always wanted to write a poem called “That Salad Went Right Through Me”. And I would wager upon its best destiny: To begin with, there is the Universal Theme-- For who has not gurgled around a conference table at half past the last radish scrap? Who, once stalled, has not persistently punched the flusher to muffle the borborygmus din? But on a loftier note, I prefer to think of my paean emblazoned in the annals of first line indexes, where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud over dactyls and tropes, “That salad went right through me” trots right off the page demanding a fervid flip to its leaf. And future discourse plied at workshops, and other such rarefied privies of poesy might thusly include: "Did you write a poem for the class today?" Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me” "Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."