thirsty

I suppose I would like to be
something sizzling, burning
crackling bright and yellow.

Or better: pink and misting,
hot, wet and simmering,
check back on me and stir.

I’d be never something sloppy,
mashed or scrapped together
last second, without thinking.

Time was taken, now I’m fizzing:
cherries gushing, pineapple ringing,
there is sugar around the rim.

The juice, dripping, stains your lips:
dab it from the corners of your mouth,
and it lasts for hours on your finger’s tips.