Hollandaise

 

To you, Holland may be a country

between Belgium and Germany.

Wooden shoes and Amsterdam benders

with booze, hashish, and prostitutes.

 

To me, Holland is a lefty;

fastball between 93 and 96.

Baby faced, with a pubescent ‘stache

sitting atop his lip like a caterpillar.

 

Is it just his hipster-ironic statement

on how “uncool” he thinks mustaches are?

Or does he drink chocolate milk in the dugout?

(Is Hamilton allowed to have chocolate?)

 

Oh, Mr. Holland, Sunday was your magnum opus.

But all I want to know is

why I expect Chris Hansen to emerge from the ‘pen

whenever I watch you pitch?

 

Perhaps you just rebel, earnestly,

against the restraints placed on you by nature.

Break free from your genetic shackles.

The razor is merely a social construct!

 

Which is only to say:

when life gives you lemons,

egg yolks, and butter,

make Hollandaise.