Someone Pass The Ketchup - Poem by Mark Heathcote
Someone pass the Ketchup. Pensive waiting,
Equating, hands of time with emptiness…
Absent of company, still not eating,
What’s keeping him—this how he expiates?
Apologises, treats his dinner dates!
I’m famished. I’m past the point of hunger
“Jeez, I hope he warms the bloody plates
Wouldn’t have happened when, I was younger”.
I’m going cold on this meal, I want him,
I’ll slip-out of my heels, and sneak a look
I’ll pinch his bottom, and I’ll stay in-trim
Isn’t he yummy? Who needs a cookbook?
If he’s lucky, I’ll be wearing the thyme!
On a slow timer together, we’ll chime.
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