The Taste Of A Macrophage Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I have always liked her fingers,
they were short but not banana like.
Impressed I'd be if any finger lingers
just after testing leakage in the dike.

Times have a habit of converting sense
replacing it with bovine oddities.
There was no need to use a focal lens
to find the spring where Cantadora pees.

The times are seven during cyclic days.
And in between there's ample time for taste.
So many roads would lead to Rome, so many ways
a soul that prides itself for being chaste.

She wrote to say that she had done the deed.
A little shy at first but full of rage
There was an instinct though, an inner need
she said the finger tasted like....a macrophage.