The Taste of Love
If love were a savor, a flavor or a taste,
a sauce or certain gravy, a marinade or paste,
Cupid could write a menu and we could order in
with romance as an appetizer, sealed up in a tin.
We could order lovers as others order food
according to our appetite, according to our mood.
I’d start out with Greek salad to titillate my palate.
Then move on to fresh lobsters beaten with a mallet.
A juicy steak would be served next with T-bone still inside.
I’d savor all the tender flesh with French fries on the side.
Dessert would be rich chocolate cake washed down with ginseng float
to make it slide so smoothly, smoothly down my throat.
There would be no tears, dear, and not one broken heart
if love came from a menu, to order à la carte.