November 11 Poem

It’s 11:35 pm on a Saturday night

and I’m in the produce section

picking through the crimini mushrooms.

Then hefting the avocados,

gently squeezing, feeling for

that perfect soft firmness.

Just past the bakery, I always

stall at the cheese counter,

wandering around like I’m

looking for a new friend.

I’m always reaching for the

soft wedges of brie, and my

favorite Fromage D’Affinois,

sometimes with truffles, but

usually not. I like it soft enough

that you can spread it like butter,

but with a rind that is firm

and chewy. I’d like to have

a whole shelf in my refrigerator

dedicated to cheese and I’d carry

a plug of brie wrapped in wax

paper in my pocket so I could

have a nibble anytime I wanted.

In my pocket, close to my body

it would stay nice and warm

and soft, ready to eat. My last

stop is the dark chocolate display.

Only single origin bars for me,

and at least 60% cacao content.

Lately I’ve been liking the Asian

bars, particularly those from

Papua New Guinea and Indonesia.

They’re deep and smoky and leathery

and remind me of volcanoes.

But there’s also a French bar

made with trinitario beans from Cuba

that is so smooth, and dark, and creamy

that I can never get enough.

And there’s also a bar from Brazil

that is smooth and woody and earthy

that reminds me of the forest at night,

dark and quiet and your senses are

heightened, and even though you

can’t see much, you hear every

little sound and you can smell

the damp leaves and the piney

perfume of the towering trees,

and the rotting wood of a

fallen tree reminds

me of fresh mushrooms.

And so the bars leave with

me, clutched in my hand,

not trusted to the bag,

and I can hardly wait to

get home and carefully snap

off a piece with a sharp clack,

then slip it into my mouth,

onto my tongue, where I

hold it for a moment,

then retreat back into

that dark, delightful forest.

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