Declining by Degrees
My academic office wall, adorned with three degrees,
implied that I had gathered up some kind of expertise.
Those legends of my legacy, all fancy fine and framed
implied as well an egotism needing to be tamed.
But then there came retirement, a status nondescript,
demanding that those office walls dismissively be stripped.
I boxed up my belongings and I lugged them to my house,
the domicile I’m sharing with my all-too-knowing spouse.
She’s lived with me for decades, and she knows my many flaws;
she’s unimpressed and thus bestows no starry-eyed applause;
she knows the schools I went to and proclaims “I knew you when …
and those diplomas never need adorn the walls again.”
And so they sit here in a box, not needed anymore,
allowing for our walls a more pedestrian décor—
some simple paint, perhaps a shelf displaying bits of pottery,
and re-used frames now filled with something not so alma-mater-y.
A Tree With All the Trimmings
“Belgium’s food agency has warned people not to eat their Christmas trees…”
—Euronews
Tough prohibition if you’re keen
to nibble on an evergreen!
Suppose a hungry gonif were
just pining for a conifer—
he’d stage a bold year-end rebellion,
scoff the law and be a hellion;
he’d say skip the slabs of meat
for this illicit Christmas treat—
so grab a chair and nom nom nom
a festive, tasty Tannenbaum!
For starters, bite a bit of balsam—
street price comes to just a small sum—
then pipe a line of salmon mousse
on half a kilogram of spruce,
or carve yourself a scotch fir plank
to drizzle with a hot beurre blanc,
or dip into a yew fondue
prepared à la Le Cordon Bleu.
We shouldn’t source our sustenance from snowy timberland,
but holiday consumerism’s gotten out of hand.