Cabals of photographers use cheese to make children smile.
How they find it’s the only word that makes them show cameras their teeth, I don’t know.
Efforts I make to fall in love with cheese tend to race away behind me.
Each time I try, Mama’a cuisine beckons and Papa’s spices assault my nostrils.
So I am going to give this cheese to the photographer, not the chef;
each of us ebbing time away on the platter of customs.
Written as an acrostic poem from the text prompt of Hour 23.
Featured image source: Freepik