I think I’ll make the popcorn on the stove
and melt a little Cabot on the side.
And if then through our pantry I do rove
I might grate us some dry jack to divide.
Though maybe the air popper is enough
for those who do not like my stinky cheese;
the butter will melt smoothly in the trough
that sits above the greatest blast of heat.
But understand this now my love. I’ll give
up Roquefort, Camembert, and even Brie.
But pop me no corn in that monster. Dine
alone if you engage that dread machine.
Pray don’t suggest it; I’ll turn a deaf ear.
No, I’ll not use the microwave, my dear.
NB: I know perfectly well that my ‘ode’ is really a sonnet, but it DOES celebrate intellectually and emotionally the joys of popcorn. Who but a purist would care how the popcorn is popped?
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Bewildered Bug gave me this prompt: Write a romantic poem ‘an ode to popcorn’.
I gave Michael this prompt: The shutters slapped against the house with every gust of wind, and I felt the house watching me. This was alone. This was bad.
Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.