What you don’t eat can kill you

Darn, I got it on my hand
And I flung it on the floor,
Reached out to steady myself
And smeared it on the door.
Slipping on a piece of it
I fell and hit my head,
Had to go to the doc
And spent a day in bed.
Then, an odor so distinct
Came wafting down the hall.
Someone was surely cooking
The stuff the made me fall.
I put on my house shoes
Dressed up in a woolen robe,
Stormed out of the bed sheets
Stumbling through my dark abode.
There in the kitchen
Staring up from a frying pan,
Was the same little critter
That had stuck to my hand.
It bubbled in its juices
Among onions and garlic too,
Sliced and diced little pieces
Of white and grayish blue.
Then it occurred to me
This was an appropriate fate,
So I gathered up a knife and fork
Scooping a portion on my plate,
I sat down with a jug of wine, and
Every bite of that damn squid I ate.

©2011, Donald Harbour

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