Spice Man Poem by Raymond Magabe

I am not a spice man.
I don't like funky aromas enticing my sinuses'.
my taste-buds are very choosey.
my throat is very sensitive and my tummy aggressive,
but there is just something about this woman's cooking,
I swear its like she mixes honey with her spices
to give it that slightly-sweet tingle on my tongue.
my taste-buds now tango with every mouthful.

this woman's cooking belongs in my heart,
it found its way in from the toe up
and truly blessed every pit-stop with its presence.

my woman's cooking is like sunset at the oceans shores.
It untangles even the most tangled of appetites
and ravishes all that was left of trouble.

it's like the food knows its food
and it has a fulfilling duty to perform.
it's like it was trained to tease my senses
before playing 'footsie' with my desires.

I am tempted to swallow long before I see it.
her cooking is pure pleasure chopped up and boiled
diced down and marinated, salted and sweetened,
and then spiced up with a naughty smile,
before being served like to a king
(angel wings and all)
I swear heaven is missing a cooker.