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misstree
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it is a special art, eating,
when every dollar that visits your pocket
is precious, when it may be the last for a while.
old arts came swimming back, times before
that food was a painful neccesity, that
ramen could be transformed for two,
but with only my own simple stomach to fill,
a more sparse selction can be formed:
egg noodles to butter, carrots to chew,
tiger milk and yoghurt to put my body at ease,
rice and eggs on which to build,
and as i shopped, a voice from the heavens:
"come back and visit our bakery department
for hot loaves of french bread,
only 99 cents each."
it was sourdough i chose,
plump as a pillow and twice as soft,
its crust a ripe rind around sweet meat,
crisscross browned where the dough had been scored.
wrenched free from its heavenly bundle,
wisps slopped through golden yolk,
crust dabbed straight into the tub of butter,
every precious penny more than worth
this blissful manna, joyous nourishment.
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070121
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