condiments

I can’t ketchup to you
to sweetly relish
your interiorities:
not even with all this
pelvic mayonnaise. The poems
are the crucial chutney
to the bland daily “special.”
Nothing else matters,
not the wasabi
of your personality,
the coarse mustard
of my mannered
suggestiveness,
or the gooey duck sauce
of these noxious phantasms.