An Ode to that One Chip on a Monday Morning

My dearest rises from her amber bath,

Steaming and luscious in the early hours

Before her adversary, her undoer, 

Can draw her into the iniquities

Of room-temperature staleness.

Her skin is coppered and warm to the touch,

Gently kissed by the scent of Persian lime,

Exfoliated by precious oils and choicest salt.

It is of no doubt that her sublime appearance

Was the retroactive inspiration

For the design of the Great Pyramids;

The Pharaohs received godly visions

Of her dayspring loveliness

And desired to be entombed within

Her balmy bosom.

Her kiss is coarse, yet gentle,

Her lips tinged with sweat and citrus,

Her taste lingering in the mouth

Like cigarette smoke in a crowded room.

Alas, she is gone now,

Too perfect to exist long in this world.

But in that moment—

That single moment—

That perfect moment—

She achieved apotheosis,

And her divinity ascends to realms incomprehensible.