Smoke rises at 2-hundred-22 degrees;
fumes of deep-fried food stuff swim upstream beyond my nostrils;

elicits a reaction watching something once frozen submit to a mandatory scorching thaw. . .

remember how your popsicle once melt'd in the center of my hot plate,
how it got all bub'ly and happy,
trans-morphing from solid to liquid?

but it is nowhere near the savor of the
chocolate ice cream going down cold, i tease it with my tongue to make it go down slowly;
that way it keeps me satisfied, sooths my belly's growl,

. . . and since I cannot have what i truly want, the smoke and the ice numb my tastebuds so they can forget;

not much out there that matches the magic of a well-prepar'd morsel after midnight. . . .

© 2005 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d
            How much is normal?