Not On My Watch

This is an argumentative poem that I wrote that was inspired by a day on the job in my dining hall/cafeteria, after I witnessed a boy put a spoon in his mouth and then dip it into a container of peanut butter. Needless to say, I was grossed out. This is one poem that is meant to be performed in front of an audience, and is much more fun in a performance setting. After much debate, I named it Not On My Watch.

You, sir. You who would stop

at nothing to eat your spoonful

of peanut butter-

Stop.

Put the spoon down.

It may be tempting to stick it

in that pile of brown goop

that is quicksand

for your tongue,

and I get it. The adventure, the mystery,

the bad-assery that comes with the territory

of dipping a spoon into a container of peanut butter.

But once this spoon has come in contact

with your mouth, the game’s over.

The peanut butter is no longer in bounds.

You do know that human mouths are dirtier than

dog mouths, right? And dogs lick their

ass.

So just think, that spoon is now contaminated by your

germs and bacteria that will combine

with that nutty brown substance and do terrible

things to your peanut butter successors.

Like 28 Days Later, I am suddenly a peanut

person behind you, staring at you as though

you are the one who looks like food. You’ll jump

into the next room, lock the door, turn on the TV and see

the breaking news:
“Attack of the Nut People!” You’ll watch

footage of three poor transformed souls barreling down

customers in a grocery store to fill their arms

with bottles of Jiffy, Skippy, and

Kroger brand. They open the jars, frantically

grab handfuls and stuff it in their mouths.
Vegetarian Zombies? They can’t hurt you.

You’ll feel relieved.

Classic mistake. Because you then see the zombies spit

their peanut butter at the customers,

and the instant it hits them they begin

to mutate into peanut-form,

teeth bared,

eyes glaring,

veins bulging,

monocles growing in one eye,

canes shooting out of their hands,

top hats appearing on heads that are as

bald and pruny as a baby’s butt

after birth. The footage abruptly stops

and you see the scene in the newsroom.

The peanut zombies have gotten

inside, spitting peanut butter at the anchors,

the cameramen. The weather man dives behind

his green screen and for one second, you see today’s forecast:

Pleasant, and sunny.

Then a mouthful of gooey,

spit-filled, poo-like peanut

butter hits the camera and the screen goes dark.

You stare at it in shock, clutch

the remote control in your hand. You can smell

peanut butter. The knob to your room begins

to jingle…

So you. Yes, you, with the spoon in your mouth on your way

to that container of peanut butter,

pause for one second, use your common sense,

and put the spoon down.

And please, seriously, get your

dick out of the jelly.