Ode to My Foreman Grill and other Poems


Patrick Walsh


Ode to My Foreman Grill

My silver-gray Foreman grill
idles on the counter
like a UFO
that will
never attain
warp speed again

because its occupants
decided to throw
a pound
of Angus down
the hatch,

You see?  The orange light went out;
They're not going anywhere.


Verse Redux

Get behind me, Satan,
And follow my lead,
I’ll show you how to make these humans
Make themselves bleed.

Turn the other cheek:
Workman’s comp for a week.

Upon this rock
I build my parking lot.

Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s –
And when you get the change,
Let’s flush this toilet and head over to the Bellagio.

Let the little children come to me,
Only don’t let the Feds know.

O ye of little faith,
Always asking: What if?
Bulls and bears make money;
Pigs get driven off a cliff.

I am the way, and the truth, and the life:
Don’t pay no taxes, ain’t got no wife.



This is what the country means:

The greedy earth, a soul-judging sky,

The sweet smell of shit on the wind.

And the dumb staring eyes of cows at a fence

Endlessly chewing their cud, yanking tufts of grass

As if they were handfuls of hair on my head.

Animal, vegetable, mineral.

And the rain.  Always the rain.