GLOBAL MUSTARD SHORTAGE LOOMS
AHEAD OF SUMMER BARBEQUES
We’re short of everything these days—
grace for instance, reason, joy.
And now it’s mustard.
Smooth or grainy, Cajun style, dilled,
neon yellow, brown, that Grey Poupon.
We used to slap it freely on
most anything. Burgers, dogs,
our griefs and grievances,
the brutal, constant pain of our discordance.
Or was that all some other salve we used to slather?
I don’t remember anymore.
The taste is gone—that zing.
That mustard.
*
B.L. Pike is a poet from Arizona. Being new to all this, her poetry has only appeared on Rattle’s Critique of the Week and Tim Green’s submission pile, where it has earned any number of helpful suggestions that I trust are reflected in this poem.
