There's something in my brain that resists writing whimsical poems. This poem takes a look at the caste system that is salad.
Ingredients piled on each other
Tomatoes always grace the top.
The mass of lettuce creates a buffer
Between scattered carrot petals
And the buried scallions.
Onions layer the bottom of the bowl.
Separate but together.
Together but unequal.
Because who likes onions?
Undesirables, pushed to the edge of the plate
Outcasts, thrown away
The crunchy, spicy untouchables
Sit in the trash
And weep their own onion tears.