Poetry is not my strong suit, but here
  is a wicked little sonnet I wrote:

                              Hungry

I've spread a sumptuous feast on white percale,
A soft, red, dewy rose rests in your plate,
Whose scent t'would be your pleasure to inhale,
Yet here it lies, my love—you're three hours late.

I wonder, darling, where's your appetite?
Could spreadsheets, meetings, ledgers, CPA's
Appeal more than dining home tonight?
Or could it be you're eating out these days?

I'm hungry, too, and cannot wait forev'r:
Your lamb chop's drying up; the rosebud droops.
Shall I waste tender succulents that nev'r
Entice you to eschew oth'r fleshpots' soups?

Beware, my dear:  Your negligence might end
In my sharing your supper with a friend.

--  Janet Gavin

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