Hot Poetry Soup

I like my soup hot. Slurping the edge of the bowl carefully So as not to get burnt. These aromatic words are better than any drug. But just as addictive ... with no hangover. Though sometimes it still gets me high. Or makes me cry with its blatant honesty. So, I thank you, you Wizards of culinary delights. For easing my hunger pains. Teasing my taste buds. Inspiring me to be a better cook. I feel less like a stranger in a strange kitchen. With thousands of friends with their tongues in my ear. Stirring up the pot in my soul. Tantalizing my dreams. And when my bowl is empty, you leave me craving for more. You and I are not a lost Art in some back ally squat. Thank you for letting me sit at your table. And you're always welcome at mine.