Pot Luck Papa

Pot Luck Papa

My dad brings odd things to the table.

The contents of which, are appropriate for fable.

Succulent shrimp and other crustaceans delight.

While odd concoctions bubble, giving children a fright.

He makes flan, sorbet, and rich roasts of pigs,

But also liver, escargot, and hot sauce laced figs.

A tale of two tastes I always say,

Cooking and cooking all the long, smelly day.

I don’t know how he bakes,

or finds flavor in snakes.

I just know each Friday night,

When the sun is out of sight,

We sit down to eat.

And there we meet,

Ideas new and memories of old.

My father’s cooking invites the hungry and bold.

And after the fact, I lay on my back

Confessing his knack;

To make good times and bad dishes,

And put kids to sleep, with tart tums and sweet kisses.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world

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