A Dis-Ode to the Mushoom

As a foodie — it pains me
the lack of pang, the indifference,
for fungi foraged from a forest floor
gills, spores, or teeth — mush all
not a morel, not a morsel, nor saddle,
I’m bareback all the way, I’d rather
walk, than search for a jelly cup,
hens of the woods, foul to me,
witch’s butter, a leafy brain,
poison this, none of that,
ivory coral, candlesnuff can’t hold,
well, a candle, stick, club, breaker
“Fore” and watch them scatter,
I know I should covet, seek, slobber
at the offer of a truffle, shaved,
give me nudity, give me liberty,
or give me death, upon my plate,
the slippery, slimy, squishy decay
of life that has slipped away
and passed by this life, not lived.

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).

Today’s prompt: Day Fifteen: “Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in. This isn’t quite the same, I think, as something you’re indifferent to. ”