Raw Appraisal
Grandpa is a peanut buff.
He buys them raw, roasts them
at 300 degrees,
a heat sufficient to kill germs
and purge unworthy thoughts.
Granddaughter samples them,
still warm from the oven,
a new taste experience.
She chews slowly,
as her eyes reflect an inner light.
"These are good," she says.
"I'm making peanut butter,
in my mouth."
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
