Poor Man’s Asparagus
In the African basket on the back porch
a colorful impulse buy at a Sunday morning market
leeks are stacked tight and tall
shaded by the overgrown Valencia orange tree.
Long, short, fat, thin, odious, sweet
a community wrapped and twined,
dirty roots dangling from thick white bulbs
caked with earth from which they’re mined.
Before Jesus strapped on sandals,
leek leaves hieroglyphed Egyptian walls,
Emperor Nero ate bushels stewed in oil
whilst Rome burns and falls.
Welsh men donned the smelly stalk in caps
setting themselves apart from British enemies,
the leek poorly regarded by the haughty French
in spite of their Vichyssoise.
On St. David’s Day the first of every March
virgins tuck the phallic leek
under snowy vestal pillows
to dream of husbands kind and meek.
Poached in lemon and old Chardonnay,
or melted in duck fat with sherry and spread on toast,
leeks transcend onions and garlic and shallots
their ethereal taste no allium boast.