THE HONEY MAN
When I made the honey root beer,
everyone took a sip, screwed up their faces, drank no more.
Same with that blend of honey and cocoa in a cup.
The prayers for my honey lemonade went unanswered.
My honey milkshake had no takers.
And then there was the fruit punch with ½ cup of honey.
More of a saccharine fruit love tap in actuality.
And all turned up their noses at honey with granola.
Nor did any go beyond the first mouthful of my bathtub mead.
I baked apples with honey.
I fried up some German pancakes…not a nibble.
They pooh-poohed the honey bagels,
turned up their noses when fresh-baked wheat breads
became one with the nectar of the bees.
Too sweet was the complaint I heard the most.
Nothing should be that sweet – not muffins, not coffee cake.
Not the people in our lives. Not our wives, our husbands.
Not our best friends. Not even strangers when we ask directions.
Or buy lottery tickets at the store.
I should have realized that lives are conditioned
to work with the tart, accept the bitter.
They can even go for weeks on end on nothing but the bland.
But sweetness takes them aback. It foils their expectations.
I still prepare my honey crescent loaf.
But I try not to smile when I serve it.