Gruel

I was addressing the complaints

Of the orphans

And I take umbrage

With one in particular

The gruel is in no way unappetizing

In fact, it is delicious

It is hearty

It is aromatic

It is exquisite

I slave over it all morning

Adding spices

Adding herbs

Adding special ingredients

That I’ve accrued

From the West Indies

I present it to the children

And because their palates

Are not fully developed

They push it around with their spoon

And complain that it is not

To their liking

And you wonder

Why we lock them up

In tiny rooms

With no windows

A crime against gourmet food

Is a crime against humanity

To leave my gruel

Sitting on a plate--

Or worse

Even worse

--To gobble it up

To avoid savoring it

Letting it linger

In the mouth

Before allowing oneself

To ingest it

Is perhaps a far greater sin

But these little imps

Swallow it down

As if it were nothing more

Than a bowl of sugar water

Either they refuse to eat it

Or they gulp it

Thereby showing no appreciation

For all my hard work

Not a single one of them

Approaches me to ask

If they detect a hint of rosemary

Or a peck of dried sage

None of them inquire

As to what that smokey element might be

Or the delightful

Lightly sweet aftertaste

Yesterday I saw one of the little devils

Dipping bread in it

As though it were nothing more

Than creamed butter

I could barely stop myself

From throwing him

Out the nearest window

They bang and clang

With their horrid little spoons

And when they’re done

They ask me if one day

We might have a bit of cake

Cake

The spongy dumbshow

Of the culinary world

Nothing subtle

No nuance

Just yeast and frosting

And they beg for it

Beg for it

Of all the positions I’ve held

Over the years

Chef at the orphanage

Has to be

The least satisfying to me

Professionally

I may as well just slit a cow’s throat

And let the throat-blood

Pour into a bowl

See if they like that any better

They have no taste

No taste at all

At night, I dream of cooking

For children with parents

With mothers and fathers

Who teach them

The ways of fine dining

And sensible creation

I see silverware

And napkins

And dinners that last for hours

While each little eater

Brings their food

Slowly to their mouths

And

As soon as they’ve finished

Looks up at me

And says--

Thank you

Oh, what a dream

What a splendid dream

Indeed