Cheese
You’ve seen cheese rolling.
Watched in disbelief—
did someone, like a thief,
reach into your head,
remove your brain,
leave you for dead?
There’s no lesson here—
just the wry thought
that the cheese they brought
along for sport,
paid for and pampered,
embellished, answered,
takes more time to push uphill
than ever earns the effort.
Oh look, here it comes,
struggling to run
in pointed heels—
voice all practiced pleas,
a caretaker’s babbling brook
of excuses, a kettle of crooks,
and tears that threaten, boil,
pouring cauldrons of molten oil
on your honest soil,
swamping roots
rocking suits.
You reach each summit
only to find more hills.
Or worse—it rolls back and kills
the ones who sweat
and toil,
the ones who let
cheese have its curds and whey,
who stop to hear what it has to say.
It has always been this:
buttermilk betrayed by a kiss.
So close your eyes—
pray for cliffs.
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