is the distinction between
scarlet letter and virtue
a delicate variation of
sternum and breast
permitting eyes to rest once inch
below neckline instead of three.
The difference one button can make
is the misfortune of a mislabel
the reputational sting
of leaning too far forward
and the silent demise of perception
moving quickly to the posterior.
It’s the invariable
of love versus hate,
the arid tang
of earth and sugar
confronted on the palate
by realization of preference.
Either choke or savor,
there is no in-between,
no moderate like or dislike,
only one extreme to another,
like ears to a Zappa record,
each riff unraveling
rhythm or drone.
Or perhaps a nose inhaling
gasoline, each scent a discovery
of saccharine under chemical.
And as the oddities
of our likings emerge,
there will continue to be
those who prefer black to red,
consuming in cult fashion,
despite tongues laden
with molasses and
inevitable cotton mouth.