Poetry
The Watermelon Dirge (Not Quite a Dirge)
Upon a humid summer night,
While moonlight cast its ghostly light,
I pondered, weary, growing older,
And felt the creeping evening colder.
I thought upon the passing years,
Of vanished hopes and hidden fears;
Of joints that groaned, of hair that fled,
And all the signs of age ahead.
Then from the kitchen came a scent—
A fragrant, pungent testament.
Not raven, specter, ghoul, nor sprite,
But garlic cloves in butter bright.
Beside them lay, in noble heaps,
The onions, guardians of men's keeps;
And on the counter, grand and green,
A watermelon fit for kings.
I sliced the melon, ruby-red,
And ancient whispers filled my head:
"Consume us, friend, and do not mourn
The vigor with which you were born."
The garlic winked with papery grin,
"The secret lies not out, but in.
Though vampires fear me, so I've heard,
I strengthen more than folklore's word."
The onion spoke through fragrant haze,
"Recall your younger courting days.
If tears I bring, pay no attention—
I'm aiding other forms of tension."
The melon chuckled, sweet and round,
"As science lately may have found,
I bear within my juicy core
A little something worth exploring more."
So night by night I kept the feast,
With onion, garlic, melon least—
Or most, depending how you measure
The path to confidence and pleasure.
And now when shadows fill the hall,
I do not dread the night at all.
For in my pantry, stacked in rows,
My strange triumvirate repose.
No raven perched above my door
Croaks "Nevermore!" forevermore.
Instead, from kitchen shelf nearby,
Three humble foods make this reply:
"Eat wisely, friend, and have no fear—
Your manhood's still residing here."