Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell’s life.
Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.
I noticed all the spinach cans stacked high up on the shelf. Not a single can was
selling. Must be others like myself.
The pickled beets were sold. They’d placed ‘em on the shelf that morn. And
spinach even took back seat to old time canned creamed corn.
My loathe for spinach got me thinking back to second grade. I was standing in the
lunch line, kinda timid and afraid.
The gal, behind the counter, with her hair up in a net, served me corn and fried
potatoes and some homemade buttered bread.
I must admit my old school lunch was looking mighty fine. Until she plopped the
spinach and expected me to dine.
I tilted back the plate to keep the spuds from spinach juice. There’s nothing
worse for eating with your spinach on the loose.
I gobbled up my corn and spuds then gazed down at my plate. The spinach
wouldn’t vanish. Was I destined to my fate?
Well, Jackie Johnson drank her milk then wore the widest grin. She opened up
the carton and she spooned the spinach in.
So, I tore my carton till the top was open to a square. Then dumped the spinach,
sealed the lid, and scurried out of there.
But the dang lunch lady grabbed my carton, shook it up a bit. I told her it was
clabbered milk. She wasn’t having it.
I wondered, “Should I cut and run?” My legs were short but fast. But then I
heard the principal. His word would be the last.
The principal spoke up and said, “Don’t open up that stink!” He threw the carton
in the trash and shot me his side wink.
That day in spelling class I learned to spell a word so well. ‘Cuz three letters
ending principal are P.A.L. my pal.