Without Concrete

The bistro was my culinary chapel,
its sacred entrees the salvation
from the demons of salmonella and botulism.

Their menu my gourmet gospel,
how that ambrosia slid so succulently
down my worshipper’s throat
after swallowing those heavenly textures,
which had aroused and enticed with rapturous delight
while in my mouth’s salivating juices.

Suddenly one noon they were closed
in honor of ptomaine awareness day,
I felt lost, utterly panicked,
worried some villainous germs wound attack,
rendering me diseased and insane
should I dare to sample any other morsel
than the ones they said preserved my life.

Wandering in a daze
to a place without concrete,
finding a bush filled with berries
unable to resist my urge and devouring my fill,
but still fearing death would come,
closing my eyes to bid life farewell,
then so elated when the chef reaper didn’t visit.

Days came and my hunger for that fruit
drove me as a wild beast
back for another meal.

Walking past the bistro,
shocked to see that the health department
had closed it permanently.

But I didn’t feel any sadness
for my burgeoning pioneer soul
as I chanted joy over my new hope,
oh sweet liberty of forbidden flavors
that my phobia pallet had feared to taste.