As you arrive, despite my directions,
I wish for an unforgettable luncheon,
my roast aflame, ruined by my negligence,
devilishly, I think of disguising fast food as my own.
As you enter my kitchen,
I stretch my calves in the window,
while you inquire 'bout the smoke,
"Oh just steamed clams," I remark.
As I bring burgers to the table,
confused by the lack of steamed clams,
you ask, I reply I remarked 'bout steamed hams,
of which I call burgers, despite being grilled.
As we contemplate, I excuse myself,
you decide to go, you ask what's in my kitchen,
it being Aurora Borealis,
located entirely within my kitchen at this time of year.
Not allowing you to see it,
I send you off on your way,
while my mom yells the house's on fire,
from the top floor, needing urgent help.
Dear Carthago, will you be my Valentine?