Tradwife? No, thanks. I’m not the type you’ll find
exclaiming “Yippee!” “Yesiree!” or “YOLO!”
at thoughts of chores I might be doing solo –
especially the old-school kitchen kind.
Churn butter? Grow a sill of herbs? You’re kidding.
Give me boxed broth and Hellman’s mayonnaise
and sourdough I didn’t have to raise.
Give me technology that does my bidding.
Yet how I love to cook up verse from scratch:
to handpick thoughts I planted as a kernel
within the fertile pages of a journal,
add rhymes (a meaty or a salty batch),
then whip them into something that – although it
may stink at times – tastes vastly fresher than
the glop inside an algorithmic can
because you know it comes from me, Tradpoet.