Sonnet #4

I long to add you to my recipe

{you spicy little thing} but you elude me.
I wonder how delectable it could be

if one good woman like you would accept me.

I sense indifference (do you find me too bland)
and then you make your exit with expedience
on wings [too quickly to enjoy the flavor]

But patience and good cooking go in hand,
and I am missing just a few ingredients
to conjure up a dish that we could savor.

It bothers me. I really wish I knew
what things are missing from my seasoning;

good humor maybe, or a dash of reasoning?
I think perhaps some cinnamon would do.

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