Dear God of Condiments

Dear God of Condiments
Why are you the only God in my refrigerator?
Have I angered the God of Real Food?
My fridge is a shrine to you!
Relish, mayonnaise, mustard, oh,
how you gloriously dominate my culinary reality!
You certainly taste better than a gun barrel.

Dear God of Condiments,
have you ever tried making a mayonnaise soup?
It tastes nothing like chowder
no matter how much relish I put in.
Have you ever tasted yourself,
Dear God of Condiments?
I confess, there have been times
when I have licked my own skin,
considered how well I could spread myself.
I could easily go
with corned beef and rye.
I could be a sauerkraut.
I am told I am part German,
but I don’t know which part.
I like to think it’s my right pinky,
shorter than my left.
I am also told that I am a liar,
but that isn’t for me to determine.

Dear God of Condiments,
it’s not that I can’t afford food,
it’s just that sometimes when I think about
leaving my house
I lose my appetite.
I am sorry to say that
I am not praying to you out of fear or admiration.
At this point I pray to you out of necessity.

Dear God of Condiments,
I am staring out of the window now.
My neighbors don’t know that I exist.
Wouldn’t it be interesting if I did not?
In the Bible, they said that God spoke us into existence.
But I believe in a lot of gods, such as you,
God of Condiments,
as my fridge will testify.
Little idols in the door defining my life.
They say you are what you eat,
here I am,
two bottles of ketchup,
a bear of honey,
a jar of salsa,
prostrating before you.



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