Love Waits-Tables... Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love waits-tables and passes the salt
love is that preverbal…thunderbolt,
love leans over a winter's bowl
of pearl barley, soup
love is the one you, affectionately,
called a nincompoop!
Love, that all-important main dish
nothing too brash or outlandish.
That's as light as a Dover sole
garnished with a little light salad.
Yet a little sweet-heat creole
nothing too spicy, or mustard
needing, never a dessert spoon
or a little side plate, macaroon
to leave you feeling deliriously whole.