Attitudes. W. Ross Winterowd
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In all of China and Japan.
It was brought here, to be specific,
To labor on the Southern Pacific,
And then, forsaken, had to stay
In Hanford and in San Jose.
It now speaks English fluently
And sends its kids to USC.
Leafs
Sotweed
One leaf should now be doing time,
Life sentence for its horrid crime,
Its disregard for humankind,
Cruelties that numb the mind.
Sotweed dulls the keenest brain
And leaves behind on teeth vile stain,
A rancid odor on the breath—
Tobacco is the herb of death.
Yet as I pen this morbid dirge,
Struggling with the awful urge
To suck in nicotine and tar,
I’m puffing on a huge cigar.
Lettuce
When it’s sliced, I cannot bear it!
Purists always gently tear it
Delicately with their fingers,
Avoiding acrid taste that lingers
From the touch of any metal
On this tender, light green petal.
But lettuce seldom gets its due.
There are really very few
Who eat the leaf ‘neath stuffed tomato
Or salad, tuna or potato.
Left on the plate, wilted, oily,
It’s often nothing but a doily.
Cabbage
A thoroughgoing democrat,
In blue collar and hard hat,
Cabbage has a union card.
On Saturday, he mows his yard,
Watches football Monday night,
Has never missed a major fight;
Subscribes to People, scans the Times
(For weather, scores, and heinous crimes).
Mr. Cabbage is sub dig—
Some would say, “A swine, a pig!”
But this pungent vegetable,
Leader of the plebeian rabble,
Has potential, without doubt:
He’s incipient sauerkraut.
Magnoliophyta
Okra
(at the request of Jim Corder)
Family mallow’s diverse stock
Includes both okra and hollyhock,
Althea shrub, and, indeed,
Rose of Sharon, and velvetweed.
When you served your okra gumbo,
You undoubtedly didn’t know
That your soup was pleonastic—
Rich and spicy and bombastic.
As the dictionary tells you,
Gumbo’s “okra” in Bantu.
Consider, then, this irony:
Okra came across the sea
To pick that field, to cut that cane,
To labor on in woe and pain,
While its cousin sat in state,
King Cotton, mallow’s line enate.
Matters Professional
Deconstructionism
In the heat, beneath the trees,
Ungainly wood between her knees,
A cellist idly weaves her notes.
The melody, I think, connotes
The lazy, endless whirl of mind—
A nebula that’s ill-defined—
Toward a center, resting place,
Stability in boundless space.
The Jaded Compositionist Meditates on His Calling During an Attack of Influenza
Thank God, I say, for student essays!
They let us while away our days
In what we hope is harmless work,
Hunting for the errors that lurk
Within the Twinky prose.
Those acne essays—we’ve tried, heaven knows,
To improve their complexion
By noting each and every possible correction,
And feeding their authors, without apology,
Nutritious fare from the Norton anthology.
We may do some good; we hope so.
In any case, this much we do know:
The essays probably won’t be terrific, Yet they’ll serve as a soporific
To deaden the pain of arthritis or flu.
Ah yes, our themes will see us through
The dismal dregs of sniffling Sundays,
The aching, hacking nights of Mondays,
Weekend, weekday—noses or knees, heads or backs,
Wherever the malady, themes help us relax.
Those narcotic anodynes, those horrendous stacks—We need them. We’re nothing but pitiful hacks,
Self-righteously flaunting devotion to duty,
To error-free prose and to truth and to beauty,
When we know for a fact (and this is sublime):
Our mission is really just to kill time.
Slither, Bustle, Waddle, and Glide, Members of the Departmental Subcommittee on Allocation of Office Supplies and Faculty Amenities
He Slithers in and hisses greeting.
“This will be a busy meeting.”
She Bustles primly to her chair.
“This will be a great affair.”
She Waddles dourly to her seat.
“I’m glad,” she grunts, “that we can meet.”
He Glides along; he doesn’t walk.
“We’re alone, so we can talk.”
Glide looks thoughtful, wise, profound.
Waddle doesn’t make a sound.
Bustle’s manner is officious.
Slither’s start is . . . well . . . auspicious.
“This is,” in hiss, “a vital matter.”
“Indeed, indeed!” is Bustle’s natter.
“I agree!”—that’s Waddle’s rumble.
Glide advises, “We