Secret Sauce And The Seduction Of Me

Warning: Poetry can be jarring at times

I love a good sauce

Is this one?

I smell potatoes

Or is that pathos?

Where is the spice, boss?

I mean, the host

Too quiet, this room

Too rapacious, the talk in this room

Soon, our performances will replace polite conversation

Soon, a fortress will replace my den

Soon, temptations will hurl themselves at me

They’ll knock, sometimes quietly

I am not immune to her whispers

=L=

Poet’s note: This poem bleeds like a cheap pair of headphones. I mean, you can hear some of it somewhere else. Specifically, here:

*Jarred tomato image by “Mrdidg”