Methuselah

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never, as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calory count;
He ate it because it was chow.
He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat
Or a couple of vitamins shy.
He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
By some fancy dessert;
And he lived over nine hundred years.

THE TRUE TEST or OUR SECOND DATE

We'll enter an arena of delight to satisfy a primal need. But while excited, yet, my love, I dread tonight. We'll meet each other's sense of taste and style. Our histories and our future will unfold in every gesture. Start this--you or I? The old traditions now no longer hold. We all can be a Master or can try. Trust intuition? Risk repas critique? By now we're well past going by the book. Will knowledge, judgment or technique decide, or just a pinch or twist or look? Our first adventure. Well, it's me or you. We'll see now, who's the chef, and who's the sous?

Poetry Visualized

Methuselah

THE TRUE TEST or OUR SECOND DATE