There's something in my brain that resists writing whimsical poems. This poem takes a look at the caste system that is salad.


Tossed around

Spun together

Ingredients piled on each other

Colored jumble.


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.