In honor of O, Miami, the month-long poetry festival that has been a shot in the arm for hipster culture (no wait, that’s heroin) and for the arts in Miami, we’re posting online our submission to the festival. The following poem, an ode to Michael’s Genuine Food & Drink, was submitted in response to a call for poems relating to Miami restaurants. A pretty narrow category, admittedly. So it’s not clear if there was fierce competition or if the fact that the poem involves a hungry diner choking to death on a radish effectively DQ’ed it from consideration. In any event, here it is for public consumption:
O.M.G., M.G.F.D.
O.M.G., M.G.F.D., or so a teenager might text,
With your open tables so unattainable, except by Open Table,
And no regard for menu costs, your everchanging menu.
You harvest from farms of fudge, paradise, even a heaven for bees.
In life, three great accomplishments–a Nobel prize, a Latin Grammy, or to have reserved a table.
Bend the ear of the maitre d’. Crispy pig ear.
Entire party? Not arrived. (O, Miami.)
Retire to the bar, eye the menu. Crispy pig eye.
A bar snack to tide you over, radish with salt.
Addictive, like radish with powdered sleeping pills.
And another. And another.
Just one last—
Caught in the airpipe, width of a radish. Crap.
Tablemates just arriving, other side of the bar.
Waving frantically, universal sign for choking or hey friends, good to see you.
Life flashing, it took two weeks to get this reservation.
Nothing to show, not even the double yolk farm egg of a fertile hen,
Nor the deviled eggs of her evil sister.
One last gasp, faint beneath the hip music and revelry,
O.M.G., M.G.F.D.
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Loved reading this one again.
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