Ode on a Grecian Takeout Container
Illustration by Abi Watson
Behold! Upon the dawn-lit kitchen plains,
Where coffee rings and toast-crumbs mark the fray,
One noble relic of the feast remains,
A silent victor of my takeaway.
Thou Form of Foam, thou quiet, hinged design,
Left stranded by the ebbing tide of night,
What courier, what emissary divine,
Delivered thee in his Toyota bright?
Did mighty Hermes¹, driver of the app,
Consult his sacred, glowing GPS,
To bear you safely from misfortune's trap
And lay you at this monument of mess?
O Attic shape! O clamshell, pure and vast,
With azure figures frozen on your side!
What Grecian JPEGs from the public past
Were licensed for your flimsy, starchy hide?
That Discobolus, poised with perfect grace,
Has he considered where his discus flies?
Does some deep torment line his printed face?
Or just the blankness of his pixel-eyes?
And you, faux-Parthenon, with columns squat,
You bear no weight, you hold no goddess grand,
You merely advertise a souvlaki spot
With franchise rights across this weary land.
What legends, now consumed, did you once hold?
What hero's portion, generous and hot?
A tale of gyro meat, divinely rolled
From that great, spinning obelisk of blot.
Was it for this, O lamb, you had to bleat?
For this, O chicken, that you crossed the road?
To be interred with sauce and shredded wheat-
Like lettuce in this Styrofoam abode?
And oh, the fries! Those pale, dejected things,
That lie like fallen soldiers, soft and wan,
Deprived of all the crispness that salt brings,
Their starchy, tragic duty bravely done.
Thy inner walls, a palimpsest of meals,
Bear witness to the carnage of the feast;
A streak of tzatziki, which still reveals
The ghostly fingerprint of some great beast
(Or just my thumb). These perforations deep,
Where plastic fork with angry purpose stabbed,
Are constellations that the heavens keep
To chart the very instant you were grabbed.
This single olive, hiding in the crease,
A lonely orphan in a greasy tomb—
Was it the harbinger of lasting peace,
Or just a prelude to digestive doom?
My partner enters, breaking my deep trance,
And eyes the kitchen with a weary sigh.
"You're staring at the garbage," is her glance.
"Are you composing its eulogy?" she'll cry.
And what am I to say? She cannot see
The hallowed truth your fragile form declares!
The fragile link between last night and me,
The answer to my gastronomic prayers.
Should you be framed? Or placed upon a stand?
Enshrined in glass for future folk to view?
The finest artifact in all the land,
Proof that I clicked on "Add a Baklava for $2."
So let us pause. Your moment now is brief.
The recycling bin, with yawning mouth, awaits.
Your destiny is not artistic grief,
But union with your other plastic mates.
For Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to own...
At least, until I hear that siren's call
To order this exact same thing by phone.
Now to the blue box with thee. Go, you must.
Your epic journey ends in dust and trust
That someone, somewhere, knows what to do with you.
(I'm pretty sure this part is not recyclable, are you?)
¹ Hermes: The ancient Greek messenger god, often depicted as swift—a fitting, if lofty, comparison for a modern food delivery driver.
