Leftovers

A short poem of love

It isn't simple, but carefully prepared
Ingredients exchanged, and recipes shared.

This last one I read with a tender caress,
Tried time and again, but with little success.
A stew that I make, which is no easy feat,
Needs rarer components than spices and meat.

I stalk to the cupboard and open the door,
Ignoring the boxes that clutter the floor.
I pull out a cleaver, and point to my chest
And mark out a red cross, along my left breast.

Here is the main course, the heart of the dish,
Here is my love, the source of my wish.

It's first in the pot, with water to boil,
Next I add thoughts, and set them to broil
Under a low heat so it doesn't burn
Stick in a spoon, and then give it a turn
A slight hint of longing, one dash of desire
Adjusting my apron, I turn up the fire.

Sprig of suspicion,
plucked ripe from the mind.
Then in goes passion, but only the rind.
A slice of devotion, a spoon of delight,
Use only as much as the recipe writes.

I turn back to the cupboard, but now it lays bare
Such eloquent flavours leave little to spare.

An experienced chef cooks with finite amounts,
An experienced lover knows every ounce counts.

So the rest is discarded with little regret,
Pot lowered upon a weathered trivet.
A bin full of waste, a sink full of bowls,
Feverish work from my feverish soul.

I've served it before, each portion with care.
All yet to be touched, the source of despair.

No appetite quenched, a dish long grown cold.
No hands there to take what the heart has since told.

This is my labour, my debt, my dues,
Left here for you, my uneaten stew.

Author's Note

I believe there could be improvements in the flow, so please tell me what you think. This is an older poem, but I would still like to revisit it and how I felt whilst writing it. Is it too cliché, or does the point come across?