I become so enamored
With the pot that I address
It anthropomorphically:
My dear pot
Your enamel is a bit chipped
But your soul seems intact
Your lack of bacon
And portly shape engender
Only a smidge of R E S P E C T
Though that slice of ginger was nice
And your bottom line of brown sugar
Carmelized with garlic wafting
Through the air like hookah smoke
Sent me half way to heaven

But heaven is only a lonely place
Without a friend, so Mr. Pot & I
Spend the evening in the warm embrace
Of human intercourse and, of course,
We become occupied with the scarlet life
Of the Octopi