I am questioning my desire for cheesy sourdough bread.
I’m wondering if I want something else instead.
I’ve discovered I’m a poet of the kitchen,
And now I’m just itchin’
To try out my rhymes just to see
If food mixed with poetry makes me free.
Makes me feel fickle
And toast with no jam is just sad.
The chef of my house is my dad.
Perhaps I’ll have him cook me up stuff
Make my eggs super fluff…
Maybe I can’t rhyme.
I may just stick with rosemary and thyme.