Never a fan of mustard:
mustard-colored walls
smell of old laundromats.
The squirts, the stains,
the polyester prints.
Mustard is the condiment
of the seventies.
But pedaling past rape seed fields
feathery and warm,
the yellow of emoji smiles,
a smell of sweet spice
like a cup of chai tea,
the blending of bushy
heads, soft and tufted,
fields of fluffy gold
beckoning bikers-
dismount,
lie down,
and roll around
in happiness.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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