A Canned Response

A poem that does not specify what it is describing.

[Landscape view is recommended on a mobile device]

Loved and hated both
     with the same passion
Yet we stay neutral     in beige

We are fun guys
   They joke at our expense
   Those who love us    to those who do not

The waitress at the pizza joint asks
   fresh or canned, as if this isn’t an obvious choice
A surprising number prefer our slimy form
   preserved      in a metal can
   far too long
We are rubbery and slide down the throat
   like a–   raw oyster

We bring earthen essence
Smooth, blooming soft flesh
   Firm yet delicate
   We break and crumble

Our lives begins with crap–    literal crap
   We grow rampantly    if
   given the chance

   We prefer the dark until harvestedLeft for too long, our flesh softens like
   that of a middle-aged woman

Becoming slimy as our canned brethren
Earthen aroma seeps from our spores
Pluck us whilst we are young
Brush the dirt from our flesh
Never bathe us in water. We are
   Empaths— taking on fluid.   like a sponge
At our best, we absorb
   that which encounters
   our flesh
A dance
A mélange
We are best when just a part
   of a larger celebration of flavors
Yet we remain unique


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