Leprechaun Dinner

A Poem

This is for Ruthie Fletcher. ‘Twas composed in a rather undignified manner over a period of two June nights following your Fletcherification. It considers your interest in eating things that are shorter than you.

And yes I realize this is not your conception of a leprechaun.

Did you ever find the pot of gold you said you’d find?
You said there would be signs, unspecifiedish signs,
Of rainbow’s end. When summer begins golden-green and fine,
Have you yet found the tiny leprechaun you said you’d find?

I hope he tastes like sunshine,
And doesn’t burn on the stove.
I hope he smells like autumn,
Goes well with pinches of clove.

Did you find a recipe for liver of leprechaun?
I think my grandmother may have a recipe for one.
But you’re alarmingly creative, you’ll have heaps of fun.
Good or ill, either way, Van’s dinner will be leprechaun.

I hope you forgive me for laughing
As we ran away from breathless Rome.
I hope you savor your dinner
After this unsavory poem.

Fine