If I would scoop down love
the way this child does the chicken-soup
at every fancy wedding, –
I would be saved.
(A stolen bread-crumb is sweeter
to a beggar’s belly, they say, as
the rightful tenderloin to the sated lord.
But not many have tried both before…)
Love feeds you like chicken-soup,
if the soul rumbles and
snatches the spoon, and laps it
at a fancy feast,
uninvited or not, that’s besides the point.
But dread rules over me, and I’m still famished.
It’s a cowardly stinginess:
I don’t even have a spoon!