Savour Salt
for Heather, Lisa, and Suzy

A poem born within a village
Of poets is a casserole;
It gathers up its legs of taste,
And tasted, magicks back to whole.

It's what the severe headmaster
Milton might admire of malt;
It's hops taken to the yard
For sowing seed of fruited salt.

It's the deus ex macho, just in time
Teleport from Azkaban,
It's aleph of the golem king
In caverns measureless to man.

It's the dewy desert sweetness
Of Ogallala aquifer;
It's the new Mercedes smell
Of purple mountain conifer.

Its margarine for dry loaf land
A minty grain we feed theme birds;
It's gum that turns the soldier rows
Forgetful as the cudding herds.

It's saltpetre snatched from the rounds,
Donated to old canneries;
Quinine to worm the Pimm's Cup taste
For toffee snouts at manor ease.

It may not get itself to song,
It charts no chance at number one;
But it secures your enterprise
With phasers calmly set to stun.

It may go through rejection slips
Like panda cubs through bamboo leaves
But it will belt the lady one
To catch her ear midsummer eves.

It may not win the Pulitzer,
Recited during news at nine
But it will be the itch that spreads
Its own supply of calamine.

The permutations of its letters
Salt the ciphers of our wit
And since it simmers on for life
Our scrolls are ever candle lit.

It reaches out into the numb,
Embracing coals to press ignite
Without expecting all its host
To scrub off some primordial blight.

Yes, the poem cries out for judgment:
Step up and rate its special blends.
I bet it tastes like commonweal
Because this poem was cooked for friends.