I watched a pot of soup until it boiled
To thumb my nose at that old aphorism
And see the gently swirling beads of oil
Refract the working light like tiny prisms.

While flakes of parsley circulate below
The tranquil surface, wispy ghosts of steam
Disperse, as bubbles grow and burst, but no,
It only simmers, boiling though it seems.

Though heat and smell were pleasant, I confess,
I saw no beauty in that bile-hued pot.
It boiled at last -in that there was success-
But all I gained was canned soup, piping hot.

It’s good that soup was all I sought, no more,
Since in that time the Steelers failed to score.