I had the best burger of my life last night. I want to write songs about it, but this serious/silly poem will do for now.
Thank heaven for the cow who
sacrificed herself for my dinner.
She was a beauty, and her meals of grass
became much more for me.
Sitting on that bun, buttered delicately
like a fine mist of dew on a peach,
her medium-cooked beef took me to
a place where tastes explode like fireworks
over the oohs and aahs of eager taste buds.
Don't let me forget the cow who gave her milk
for the camembert that melted over the beef
like a silk scarf draped over a lamp, adding
mystery and a hint of drama to the room.
And the pig--oh, what a pig, applewood smoked
until crispy and sweet salty, floating on that cheese,
the entire trio swimming in Dijon on arugula floats.
I could end here, the memory of a perfect burger
lingering in my mouth even the morning after--but
my memory won't let me leave out the surprise win:
ginger poached pears, poised and stoic, ushering
this burger into the hallowed halls of food legend.