Soufflé

                                        A soufflé rises; its crown brown

                                        Over-inflated French cock

                                        Too right in its soft ramekin ceramic-bound

                                        To emerge without delay blessed with egged virtue

                                        Sailing soaring in hot air for the pleasure of high hats and ovation

 

                                        Another rises; on a similar ley vein

                                        Pumped-up Parisian erection

                                        Soundless trumpet ringing clear

                                        Heart of kitchen blown in part for fable,

                                        In part domestic pretty Lawson per-square-inch demonstration

 

                                        And if they don’t work, it doesn’t matter

                                        Beat, fold, pour—what’s inedible after all?

                                        At needy course there is consolation enough

                                        In servicewear cleaned blank—

                                        And always give a smile

 

                                        Grow, then, in your confidence and hand

                                        Soufflés are admission to the pleasures of liquid flesh

                                        Doff the chef’s titfa, wipe palms upon the apron

                                        You are, they are, it is—always a job well done

                                        Satisfaction in the giver and receiver