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Mustard


for condiment, only mustard, dusty dark Dijon.
Merely mustard for the garlic sausage and to spread
across tortilla. Top curlicues of sweet potato fries.
Dribble on fresh wilt spinach.

Only mustard for this retreat. Two days away with this
most confident of seasonings and a tall thin jar of olives,
gin, Earl Grey, and dark chocolate covered
toffee.

But there is also salt in this casita and cane sugar
on a shelf in a bag with clothespin to clasp it shut.
A soldier’s queue of spices including Chef Paul
Prudhomme’s Magic Blend.

A writer will not starve here. Nothing bland. Sharp
is the dab of smoky paste against the sweet fried bites
speared with foreign fork. Not mayonnaise.
Not sour cream.

The mustard is the master, no matter.

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