There is nothing deserving in you.
No great taste or color. You are
putrid, in the way that puke is
putrid. Your spice and scents are
ill-natured. My hot dog shuns you.
My corned-beef shuns you. Even, I, shun you.
You are not allowed in my kitchen.
I don’t care who might someday
crave your stench. I forbid you cross this
threshold. Mustard, you disgrace
the name of Seeds everywhere.
You disgrace all the fairies of
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
© Umansky 2013
blog of poet, leah umansky 
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