Would they be greasy?
Grimy, dirty, filthy, slips of momentary lapses in judgment,
Good clean consciousness.
Would they be crisp linen clean?
A throwback to some childish notion of peace and fair games.
Sun soaked slipping and sliding summers.
Orange saturated autumns.
Glass plated looking glasses at a foreign zoo?
Would they sour?
An acrid atrocity for our fellow man, woman, and child.
The thoughtless tinkering of a sociopathic, soul sucking misogynist.
The Mormon thumbed polygamy.
Would they smell like cinnamon?
A steaming cup of consciousness.
Spinning and swirling away from every spoonful glimpse.
If I could but taste your thoughts,
That would truly be delicious,
But food can be bland,
Or gritty like sand.
But hell, that’s just food for thought.