Writing about food
is like watching
The Sopranos
or anything starring Anthony Bourdain.
No matter what
or how much
I eat
it is never enough.
I am famished
by the power
of suggestion.
On days like this,
one small white word
arrives,
dislodging the stupor of sameness
with a sweet, wild impulse
to play.
I crave
the deep quiet
where
I can feed
on shadows,
the symphony
of small moments
filling me
up
with life.
The moon tonight
is such a lovely
cliche.
Scooped sliver
of light
on black,
a bright twinkly star
and a cow
close by.
