I try to think up a riposte
to my neighbor’s blatant boast
his guacamole is the best,
well-noted for its creamy zest.
He made it for my solstice party,
cilantro sprigs to make it arty.
And, concerned that we’d run out,
he brought an extra carton out.
Superfluous, for, undiminished,
even his first bowl went unfinished,
for I made guacamole, too,
and it was mine that counted coup.
The two were polar opposites.
Mine was the best. His was the pits.
For though his pot of guac was fine,
I put the pot inside of mine!