Ode to the fry

I.

Long and slender
like fingers
of a pianist,
other times
broad, almost Rubenesque,
your forms and moods
would sometimes change.
Your skin glistened
a golden tan,
and inside
you were crushed gardenias—
soft and white.
You were best
when sizzling;
I savored your taste
against my lips!
All this:
my portrait of you.

II.

Yet I chose
to wash my guilty
hands of you,
your touch greasy,
your scent
of spent fat oft
now repulsive.
O former fry
of my eye,
you were a houseguest
who would stay
too long—
the way
you would cling
to the gullible
roof of my mouth
with your blatant essence,
my former excess.

III.

I promise to remember
you with youthful lust,
you, wonder
of my innocence!
You, whom I have left
for another—
tossed in olive oil
and roasted—
were far too deadly
for my heart.

Note: “Fry”--- also known as “chip,” depending where you live.

---HJ (a 3-yr-old one)