Love, French Fried

Tuesday comes like clockwork

Without a tinge,

the lightest blush

Of skin the glowing colour of delicately french fried onion.

Wednesday follows obediently

And i feel

The surging rush

Of a sense of living at the very bottom of a dark, dismal canyon.

You shout out on Thursday

In that peculiar,

Gold-green-ringed,

Spiralling, laughing, wondrously mocking timbre.

You are a Fridetonation

With a glowering radius

Leaving me lightly singed

And touched by the sauteéd love for delicately french fried onion.