a poem for maggie
the chef waded in to the dining room
and the smell of garlic suffocated the guests
he came out of the kitchen to address a complaint
from the swarm of guests awaiting their meals
black ties, pumps and stunning gems, unimpressed
by the perfumes disguising the scent of the meat.
they all wanted their meat raw and undressed
but the chef insisted in his gourmet standards
so the guests all agreed, right then and there,
that the main course should change
from made by the chef, to made of the chef.