BEING FREE

Hypothetical Novocain tastes
Like a summer breeze
On a dry, still day
And the rays of the sun
On your pale, cold skin
Or the soft smell
Of the newly washed sheets
That I slept in last night.
It tastes like the Pacific waves
On a sandy coast
And the way melting ice-cream
Drips down the cone
And onto my hand
Where I am free to lick it off
Without anyone minding.
It tastes like a kitten
Walking on the lawn,
Weary of the blades,
And a slobbery dog
Jumping into the family pool
To wreak all kinds
Of watery havoc.
But most of all,
And perhaps best of all,
It tastes like being free.
That is more than I can say
For hypothetical Tylonel
Which tastes of nothing
But fake grapes.
And that isn't too impressive.