If I could eat my words

If I could eat my words,

I think,

I'd be a better poet.

To really get a taste of what I mean,

beyond the salt,

beyond the loud distraction of its content,

I'd need to read the poem with my tongue.

To ponder on the mouthfeel,

the secondary spices,

the subtle nuances,

the hint of oak.

I'd swirl it around like a rare liqueur,

let my nose do the tasting

and lips do the smelling,

and breathe before I'd swallow.

For though I am an editor by nature,

it's far beyond my eyes, 

beyond my ears,

to be a chef.

But if words were delicious 

then at lunch I'd have a sonnet,

put a pinch of pepper on it,

and for once I'd be the poet and the pen.

The End

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