PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Steam rises, curling over the edge of porcelain. 
The maître d' shifts his weight, a polished smile,

gestures toward the plate—

a delicacy, a masterpiece, a moment of triumph.

The chef, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp,

flicks his wrist, thumb and fingers poised—

a chef's kiss, a silent benediction.

Mr Creosote leans forward, belly a continent,

hands trembling for conquest.

A fork crashes through crème and crisp.

Chewing, swallowing, expanding—

his breath thickens, his eyes roll,

his body, unwilling, groans in protest.

The maître d’ steps back. The air shifts.

A whisper of tension—

something inevitable, irreversible,

a gluttonous sun pulling everything into its orbit.

Then, a pause, a flicker of realisation.

The chef, still watching, mouth twitching at the corner,

wipes his hands on his apron, steps away from the blast zone.