Taste

It’s crazy how I remember
The taste of things I haven’t had
For years and years of gluttony
Deposited in body flab.

The way a flake of mud would melt
Inside the mouth if placed with care,
When plucked with gentler fingers from
The groovy treads on cycle tyres
The morning after rainy rides.

The grating texture lasting from
A local brand of hardened chalk.
The kind that never comes with signs
Of “Baby Safe” upon its box.
The kind which adds a sandy punch
If taken with a pepper corn,
A sandiness of longer life,
Unrivalled but for Hajmola,
The spicy mango pills of “Tchss!”
When taken twenty at a go.

The bitter ticklish danger from
A reddish ant allowed to crawl
Upon my tongue, as passage rite,
A minute whole before I could
Release it from my misery
To prove to neighbour kids I would
Uphold their sacred trust in me.

The sticky salty ickiness
Of Uncle’s peepee thrust in me.