Marrakesh Stew

Harold took stock of himself in the mirror:

Good looks didn’t change bad sales for the year.

His manager frowned as she gave him the news,

Two paid weeks more, then he was through.

As a young lad, he dreamt of putting out fires,

Or running a restaurant, not selling cars with bald tires.

To top it all off, his finances not great,

Cute Mary Mulligan finally agreed to a date.

She was a waitress, at the tavern next door.

He was her regular for six years or more.

Curly red hair, dimpled cheeks, how she glowed,

Serving piping hot coffee and apple pie a la mode.

He never considered he’d lose all his pay,

Just one hour later, that very same day.

But Harold was crafty, and devious too.

He devised a game plan to make African stew.

“Who doesn’t appreciate a fine home-cooked meal?

Just don’t question the provenance of this slab of veal.”

Fine restaurants bordered his neighborhood route,

He knew which dumpsters held high-end take-out.

Hockey puck steaks, canned beans, old baguettes

His curated finds were worth hedging his bets.

Would Mary discover his deception and lies?

He banked on her diet of greasy home fries.

The stench in his kitchen was of some concern,

But he had experience, as a line cook intern.

Sure, bits might be rank, but he knew cuisine.

Decay could be masked beneath Moroccan tagine

Coriander, cumin, fenugreek too…

Transformed day-old steaks into Marrakesh stew.

Just cook it enough to kill any bad germs.

Chiles and spices will melt all the worms.

Mary arrived, blue eyes shimmered delight

She brought a nice red, as he hoped that she might.

“It’s like an Arab bizarre… I smell allspice and shallots.”

Impressed, he offered wine to tone down her palate.

He brought out the stew, aromatically steaming.

Licking her lips, told him this plan was good scheming.

The first bite shocked her, a kick to the buds.

Flames shot from her ears, tears poured like a flood.

“What’s in this dish?” she cried chugging her wine.

As capsicum fire reigned… so not sublime.

Hacking and coughing, she lurched to the sink

Guzzling water, she stumbled back for more drink.

A moment of quiet, anything but serene,

She let out a belch, her face, seaweed green.

“Harold, the bathroom? I feel uneasy.”

He pointed despondent, his belly equally queasy.

She ran for the loo, hands hiding her face.

Didn’t quite make it, as chunks flew ‘round the place.

Harold gazed on, stunned by the scene,

Exploding stew parts, old veal and white beans.

Later they laughed at his fail, thankful too,

They hadn’t been killed by his Marrakesh stew.

Mary departed that night wearing his clothes,

After chasing the meal with glugs of Pepto.

They made plans the next day when she learned of his plight.

To talk business of possible employment in sight.

“The tavern needs help - someone to work the grill.

Harold, will you do it? But please... no roadkill.”