Macaroni and Ketchup

Forthwith a silly, stupid poem
on a small and foolish subject,
the humble and unhealthful food
known in the U.S. as "ketchup."

Just sugar, salt, and vinegar
for the most part, this condiment
seasons the depths of goat cuisine.
It is the sauce of ignorance.

And of course, I've always loved it.
It covered over boiled spinach
when I was a kid. My father
taught me it went with scrambled eggs.

I once got in an argument
with a soused Glaswegian dousing
it on some awful Scottish dish
over which term was more English

and therefore, of course, the worser
for it: "tomato sauce," "catsup,"
or "ketchup." It didn't occur to us
that no name could make this sauce posh.

Sitting down tonight to a bowl
of organic macaroni
pasta shells with organic cheese,
I guiltily added ketchup

in a big, red garish dollop,
this stuff we once used as fake blood,
original, culinary
sin against the gods of good taste,

and I realize that I can't wait
to teach my organic daughter
who's wholly built of holy milk,
this lowbrow omnivore's delight.