The Joy Of... Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I stroke the glossy spreads
of dimpled skin.
The flesh so ripe
I want to sniff and bite.
Compulsion, passion, curse,
addiction, sin?
I drool at kneaded mounds
of hot delight.
The money, time,
to feed this appetite!
I seek detailed techniques,
exotic schools.
To whet, prolong, and savor
I recite the age-old rites
and catalogue my tools.
I live a proxy life.
Like other fools
I file my clippings,
downloads from the net,
trade stained and
greasy books
with secret rules of
what and when and how.
I stare and sweat.
This seems the only way
I can appease
my urge to cook.
I lust for recipes.