Name not changed to protect the innocent

I had an assignment, for a class tonight (yeah, I'm a procrastinator--I've been meaning to mention that) to write a syllabic poem. For God knows what reason, I took as my inspiration a recent Facebook discussion--one of those silly things in which I commented that I wanted sugar and a friend replied, emphatically, "Carrots."

Now, this friend's name is Andrew. And he did indeed visit me once. And he does make great music.

None of the rest of the poem is meant to be documentary. Hell, I don't even have much of a sweet tooth--and I love carrots (but not carrot cake).

So I should probably change the name in this poem. I hope that Andrew, if he reads this, will forgive me if I don't, at least for now.


Andrew’s Nostrum

A folksinger came to stay
at my house for two
weeks last summer. He made good
vegan chili, made
great music. Can’t tell
you how he made love.

Carrots, he said, are the cure
for any weakness:
acne, adultery, fatigue,
crooked politics.
Eschew white sugar.
Fill your gut with orange

and green vegetables. Stop warts.
Cancer. Debt. Dandruff.
Andrew’s nostrum makes the sun
shine bright in your heart.
Even on Christmas.
Carrots dangling like orange

icicles between blue balls.
Carrots’ demure green
heads poking from your stocking.
Carrot cake, sans frosting.
Pah. I’d rather die
fat and sweet and young

than old, virtuous, and orange.