Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone! I want to post something today that’s food related because I really can’t get corned beef, potatoes, and soda bread off my mind. What’s funny about this holiday is that the Irish don’t even celebrate with these foods — but what do they know!

I’ll also be giving you guys a poem because, as we all know, the Irish are a lyrical people, and it just seems fitting. However, this poem has nothing to do with the Irish, so I apologize for potential misdirection! Hope you enjoy regardless, and hope you all celebrate safely!

The Food

He could never get used
to the food that tried
and failed to be something
it’s not. All he ever thought
about was home, and how
he would never get over
the fact that he was forced
out, forced to come
to America, where even here,
he’s not welcome, and
told to go back, told how
worthless he was,
and that his English was trash.

He wants to leave as much
as you want him to, but
he’s stuck, and they’re stuck,
and it will never be the same.
The food, his kitchen,
will always remind him,
when he’s all alone at the end
of a twelve hour shift,
when his legs wish to give
out, knowing he’ll be up
in the blink of an eye
to work a double for the
third straight day.

All he could do is try to move
on, get on with the day,
and swallow his pride,
but his pride is inedible,
his customers tell him so.
“I barely taste the oregano!”
they yell, but what do they know?
They ask for miracles, but he
can’t even find enough room
to grow a garden, and even if
he could, the ground won’t
ever give what he hopes for,
and they’ll never know what
a true marinara tastes like.

Submissions

If you’re interested in submitting your own poem or work of any other genre, see my submission guidelines on my website for further details. Check out my submitted works section as well to get a good sense of what I publish!