I read because I like the way it tastes.
The nutty crunch of a hard “k,”
the lemon-like, breathy whisper of an “s.”
I think of myself as a connoisseur of
phonetic flavors.
When a poem flows right off my tongue,
the sweet, cool taste is tangible.
Words leave tastes in my mouth.
I carry on throughout the rest of my day
while the flavors linger.
My mind cannot escape,
paralyzed by the richness of a classic,
the garlic of a tragedy.
Eloquent consonants stick between my teeth,
delicate vowels melt on my tongue.
I wonder if others can taste it too,
the smooth icing and sparkling sprinkles
of a light beach read.
The intoxication after something so powerful
it leaves you dizzy.
Sometimes my words do not taste right.
I cannot swallow what I've written,
the words fall flat and bland back on my plate.
I strive to write something so scrumptious
that it can replace dessert.
Something so filling
dinner is no longer needed.
For now, I will experiment.
Blend my ideas with recipes that others have written
in a bowl so big that mistakes cannot be tasted.