Condiments

Salt, destroyer of hearts, on every table
In the world, a block of it
In the meadow where the doe-eyed
Take fugitive tastes.
The preacher on his midnight run
Ringing it from his shirt,
The winter streets salted
Against the revolt of snow and ice.
The rest of the condiments are child’s play.
Ketchup best comes stabbed
From the bottle
With a knife, the stuff of horror
Films where the hero dies in the end.
Mustard gives you gas,
Has those seeds that are impossible
To see, painful to the head when eaten.
Pepper is too dark for most sauces,
Makes a lot of modest people sneeze.
No, it’s salt that’s the most common.
Mostly transparent, dehydrating,
Tiny bitter grains of it in everything we touch.
Even children have a taste for it.