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Spinach

As a boy I once made the mistake of telling my classmates that I liked spinach.

Soon enough my plate was piled with a mountain of spinach even Popeye couldn’t have managed to finish.

This wasn’t the spinach my mama made,

tossed quickly in sauté pan with olive oil, salt, and a little red pepper,

it wasn’t even Granny’s slow cooked spinach infused with the sweetness of pork belly and the sharp tang of a good cider vinegar,

this appeared to have been cooked by Gorillas,

boiled without any art or seasoning, until it was a green disgusting glump on plate.

So I refused to eat my spinach. I never caved, sat in the principles office the whole day,

A rebel even then.

When mama came,

they tried to tell her how bad I’d been, that I’d lied to impress the other kids, and told them I liked spinach.

Mama looked at that principle, and huffed indignantly,

He’s no liar, he likes spinach,

that stuff on that plate,

that ain’t spinach.

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Categories: Poetry
  1. June 10, 2010 at 5:52 am

    Haha…this is so not difficult to imagine. Talk about a strong image…Who isn’t familiar with that disgusting overcooked glob of cafeteria spinach?…Yuck!
    Great read, Nate!

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