Like the lone slice of cucumber
in the dinner salad,
I fear that I am not worthy
of such distinction.
No bottled dressing could mask my ineptitude.
I am that wedge of unripe winter tomato,
those pieces of lettuce bred for travel,
the black olive rounds fresh from the can.
So much to enjoy in mediocrity.
My wind sputters and fizzles.
Fingers struggle to cover the holes.
Failures accrue like compound interest
and still I persist.
Perhaps I might add croutons, red onion.
More space. Crumbled feta. Silence.
“Salad Suizen” first appeared in Ethel in August 2019.