Cheese.

And wombats.

The essentials of love.

I dress early in my shaven yak parka

and hunt for gorgonzola above the green-mist spitting geysers.

My girl craves cheese and I am no one to deny her.

I cut with my ginsu machete through deep red branches,

quietly stepping on the light blue nacho encrusted surface of the desert.

My prey is near.

It senses my presence

and I must quicken my pace to overtake it.

As I close in on the gorgonzola,

already smelling the symphony of molded milk and preservatives,

I trip on a speeding wombat.

I lie helpless,

the tar-like cheese adhering to the nachos prevents me from diverting the wombat.

The lucky wombat devours my baby’s cheese.

There will be no nookie tonight.