This may be all about taste –
how I can stand in my kitchen
and savor the thought of corn
beef hash topped with fried
egg and never even swallow.
I burrow into that taste, rub
against it until it takes me
somewhere else – that place
where you wake and come shirtless,
scratching, lured by what
browns in my frying pan.
I taste your smile, your kiss
full of hash grease. Morning
turns as though by spatula.
- About the Author
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Sharon Scholl is a retired college teacher who convenes The Gathering, a poetry critique group in the North Florida area. She maintains a website (freeprintmusic.com) that donates her original compositions to small, liberal churches. Her poetry chapbooks, Seasons, Remains, Evensong, and Classifieds, are available via Amazon Books. Her poems are currently in Third Wednesday and Epistemic Review.
