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…

Onion: a sonnet and two-thirds

5 thoughts on “Onion: a sonnet and two-thirds

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s