Dinner With the Finicky Man

Ok.  Here's a poem I wrote for all my ex-guys whether I married them or just lured them into my house.

Dinner With the Finicky Man
 
I could feed you hot-dogs and potato salad, baked beans and sauerkraut, pickles and onions my finicky man.

Or, I could give you a rare grilled steak and baby red potatoes roasted in mustard sauce and scallions, a salad of young spinach, rosy peppers and Nasturtium blooms.
I could tempt you with Cornish game hens broiled to perfection, nested in wild rice and cashews, grapes sauteed in wine.

Then again, asparagus in Hollandaise is available tonight, medallions of veal scaloppini with artichoke hearts and fat mushrooms.

Or, I could dazzle you with the essence of Provence,
garlic and wine and butter simmering your senses,
perfuming the kitchen with the promise of secrets revealed.
I could serve you pasta in any of a million forms dusted with musty cheeses; Parmesan, Asiago, Romano.
I could toss it before your eyes while singing Figaro
and lavish it with a sauce laden with sausage,
smother it with meatballs or creamy Alfredo.
 
Or, my darling, I could serve you a feast of love.
Spread it out before you, redolent of my ardor,
steeped in my desire, musky spiced morsels,
delectable passion sushi cloaked in murmurs and sighs.

Or, my beloved, we could, perhaps,
we could, if you please,
we could, we COULD,
go out to eat.