has the 37th most beautiful salad bar in Utah,
a plaque by the door tells me so,
with cards for suggested improvements.
Mock foliage crosses spit guards
over chopped iceberg and baby carrots.
Wicker hens roost near diced ham.
Plates are divided so your country gravy and
mandarin Jell-O never have to touch
if you don’t want them to.
In neighboring valleys the rivers are blushing,
showing signs of flood,
and I wonder about the first place salads—
whole heads of romaine,
marble cherubim with golden cornet
piping symphonies of caesar,
reflecting pools teeming with koi
darting through balsamic vinaigrettes,
the kind of feast that ends
your hunger by looking at it,
double boilers heaped with swan meat.
Photo by Jenni Kotting