A Pint of the House Bleu

The tavern crouched, low and dark, 
against the constant chill
of ocean's breath.

Deep brown planking,
black ironwork,
obscure golden ale windows
defying wind and surf -

curled like a grouchy grizzly
on a massive bed
of succulent iceplant.

Smelling within of old wood,
whispered echoes of last night’s diners,
aged ciders and fireplace smoke.

We approached the empty bar,
a man trailing a little girl.
“A pint of your homemade bleu, please.”

Gently carried to car
what resembled a large soda
with a lid.

Carefully cradled
for the hour drive home.


Shiny surface just covers chunks
reminiscent of exotic marble,
seamed with blue, aqua, green-gray.

Salty, savory, pungent,
dirty sock meets divine in
thick, creamy sensory
mink

sliding, crumbling
one unspeakable dram
at a time

thrilling tongue,
untwining into nostrils,
tickling deepest reach of ear,

sensuously enrapturing
palate, throat,
stalling swallow,

leaving stomach
to lament

its lack of taste buds!