when I weep at night

Its never the onions

sliced for supper

still lingering on my hands

long after the dishes are dried,

stacked in neat rows

behind a closed door.

.

You smell of crisp frosted air

and pine needles swept from the dirt path

when the wind rushes past.

.

I layer pepper, salt, spices

hoping to add enough flavor

to the meat on my plate.

.

.

Inspired by http://thefragrancewriter.com/2020/04/05/journey-man/

Tasting passion

I think I’ve tasted passion.
Once.
For dinner,
on a Tuesday.

It was wrapped
deliciously
in denim and plaid
and tasted
of bacon and
cheap
strawberry wine.

I thought I ordered
passion again-
this time trying it
for breakfast.
I remember
it being much like
the soft-boiled egg
I ordered through
fancy room service-
although
I didn’t have
to sign for the bill.

The last time
passion was served,
I washed it down with
several gin and tonics
and an ice cold beer,
leaving me only
a headache
and thirty bucks
in the hole, with
no memories
worth remembering.

I think next time,
I’ll buy my own strawberries,
wear my fuzzy slippers,
and cook for
myself.