Day 11 of Poetry Month...

HOT SAUCE EYES

Okay buster, the jig’s up.

You with the Hot Sauce eyes, 

you, looking into the mirror of your own soul,

admiring the reflection…

I learned too late.

You are not at all what you seem.

You’re just a hard-boiled, thin-shelled white dude, 

a bad egg, dyed golden, 

pretending to be something you’re not

snuggled up next to those sweet chocolate bunnies.  

I got your number.

You’re that dinky little Individual size catsup bottle

that comes on every room service tray, 

a hard-to-part-with souvenir of better days.

My fridge is full of guys like you,

a distraction offered by the management,

so no one complains about the size 

 of the meat patty.

We shared some pretty wild capers, you and I.

We floated through the world on a bed of whipped cream,

leaving a high cholesterol trail wherever we went.

You, neatly groomed, your hair spiked like a broccoli floret,

yes, the apple of my eye no doubt, for a time,

and certainly the apple of your own.

But in reality, when seen in the telling afterglow of infrared light,

you’re nothing but a hillbilly,

a corn-on-the-cob kinda guy.

Face it.   

The only reason you’re still around

is because parts of you 

got stuck between my teeth.

©Sally Stevens 2012