Onion: a sonnet and two-thirds

One night, while seated on the kitchen chair,
I conjured up a meager meal to make
And wondered: which ingredients to take
from out the ‘fridgerator, over there?
So opened I the door, and peered inside
That wondrous machine that makes things cold,
procured one egg, some mushrooms (two weeks old),
When lo! one lonely onion did I spy.

I hesitated, then, my meal on hold.
Was I a cook so pitiless and mean
To leave this solitary veg’table
Alone inside my frosty cold-machine?
The sole survivor of an onion-sack,
He spent long weeks becoming more depressed-ed
As one by one his roommates left the pack,
Were cooked and served, devoured, and digested.

To save this onion from his misery
Will be my task. I know what I must do–
I peel it first, then wash it carefully,
And place his form upon the cutting board.
And, knife in hand, I’m sure that I have heard
A whispered voice: thank you, thank you, thank you…

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Onion: a sonnet and two-thirds

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