A Little More Salt

A little more salt

and perhaps they won’t notice

those bugs in the batter,

which I missed when adding flour.

Or the rodent droppings

that fell into the bowl

when I pulled the box of baking soda

off the shelf.

 

There was a time I would have worried,

utterly felt the torment from shame

if any disease laden tidbit of vile confection

ended up in my servings.

 

But that was before,

the divorce and whiskey mistress,

my nights alone screaming in the darkness.

Afterwards holding the meat clever

and looking at people walking down the street

then letting that butcher in my head

imagine hacking them to death.

 

I shake at times from the suppressed rage,

avoid the temptation to add some rat poison

to whatever I am preparing,

tonight I didn’t succumb to that urge,

how much longer I can stand on this edge

until the madness possesses

is a question I hide from in a bottle.

 

Maybe tomorrow my brain will lose control,

for now I cling to that frayed thread of sanity

just hoping when I let go

it will be at home and not at work.