Mustard school bus, we unload
Sixth grade Americans in ties and dresses
Feasting on a French Cuisine
The room was gardened
Peacocks roamed, a river flowed
Rabbits ran, but we did not
Prior instructions denied us so
“Have respect,” we were told
The only directions we had
Ever followed so closely
So many manners,
Innumerable rules
We dared each other
To try the snail
Laid out on a porcelain plate
Crisp baguette and buttered shell
Common critter and glorified name
We took the clamp to grasp
This slippery shell
Holding tight, fork in hand
Pried it out with no delicacy
For a moment we held
Them in suspense
A peacock cried
Cautiously I took a bite
And sinking teeth
into garlic butter
and squishy texture
The ones that tasted liked it a lot
But I could not help but think
Of them in my garden
Back at home, my orange brick house
Late spring down pours would coax out snails
They’d crawl, leave trails, infest the walkway
Happy sliding, stocky eyes, under new green leaf and grayer
sky
Call me uncultured, I fail to see
How this common creature
We’d throw in the streets
Could be worth of this French cuisine
What makes it so special?
The way it’s cooked or nationality
I could do the same without the shell
They roam in tribes under leaf and over rock
Would the same affect occur if I cooked
Ugly common spiders?
I’d use basil and thyme
Olive oil and decorative plate
Name it “Araign”
serve it, legs curled in a star
I was good I’ll admit
But why is it so special?
I do know now, I’ll never get over
The image of a buttered snail
Creeping through my
Rain soaked yard
