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The Food We Left Behind


This is one of my “commentary” poems–moderately snarky–dedicated to those of us (see? I include me) who live in this complex Southern California urban environment. We who were not born to this place sometimes long for the place we left behind. Some of us even take steps to return. We forget. We forget why we left there and why we are now here.


by Deborah Smith Parker

Those epicurean delights
Of San Diego’s balmy nights—
That’s in the past, forget it fast,
You’re going where there’s bland repast.

Since you’re moving someplace rural
I hope that you like squirrel,
Or buffalo or moose meat,
Better yet some duck or goose feet.
Here on sushi you would dine
Or sweet morsels braised in wine.

There your choices will be few
And you’d kill for something new,
Or else be close to suicide
When served another meal that’s fried.
Now I know I sound contrary,
But there the menus seldom vary
And the only part that wavers—
The different Jell-O flavors.

You don’t think I’m being fair?
Please listen, friend—I came from there.



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Sunday, 19 May 2024

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