Off White on Ivory

The smell of vanilla is an excellent thing,
The plain basement where we meet,
Something we can all agree upon, and start
Again. If anything troubles me about the way
Clouds always approach at sunset (sneaking),
Or the constant loss, always, of everything—
Even the cheapest cheap candle seems Eastern
And hot, the fruit of an orchid, excrutiating
And desirous. Or I can go to the spice
Cabinet in my kitchen, unscrew the top,
And find there something plain, and superb.