It’s Sunday
and I’ve just had a piece of chocolate fudge cake
lying in a swirl of orange marmalade sauce
topped with whipped cream and a strawberry.
I feel like a child again
standing in front of a candy case
overflowing with wonders.
I feel like a teenager with my first box
of Whitman Sampler candy.
I feel like a sophisticate tasting
the decadent delicacies of Paris.
There is something
adventurous, naughty, sensuous, satisfying,
about eating a piece of chocolate fudge cake
lying in a swirl of orange marmalade sauce
topped with whipped cream and a strawberry,
but perhaps, on a Sunday,
I can be forgiven this acceptable
sensory misdemeanor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem