Poetry

Got Home Late

Came home late.
and he had been here for a while,
and he had made pork with onions.
I know he did.
I also know
that he pan fried it,
because the sweet, sweet aroma
of that meaty musk;
the tinge of that pan-seared perfection
still lingers
delicately in the air;
and are seriously
fucking torturing me right now.
So, Damn you John.
damn you, and your perfectly golden,
certainly tender,
impeccably pan seared dinner…
that I missed.