I wrote this a little while back in 2013, when I desperately wanted to eat some peanut butter out of the jar but there was none in the house. I posted my lament on social media and claimed that tragic poems had been written about less. Someone challenged me to write this, and about an hour later this poem was written.
This was dedicated to an old friend, Amy Henwood (and to all of those without peanut butter tonight)
My cupboard stands now filled to brim,
yet I care not for what lies within.
Not jams or curds or the sweetest tea,
can ever aspire to satisfy me.
Pasta, rice - I have them in spades,
yet only memories of the scent of thee pervades
my cupboard, now a barren womb in which an empty jar
entombs my long lost love; mere dregs of spoils.
And now my blood begins to boil.
I remember days long past,
when they made jars that were built to last.
I’d spread you, love you, nibble and bite.
as you filled my days with light.
In morning or eve or as dusk fell,
you’d always have me under spell
of desire to reach to take you down and allow me to once more
drown in tears of joy at your sweet embrace.
Now bitter anguish streaks my face.
Rest now my prince, my fire and muse,
one who I never thought to lose.
I’ll move on but there’ll never be another &emdash;
you’ll always be my peanut butter.