A Month of Poetry: Five

by thereisnosurvivorsguide

I was going to write

a poem today

but the empty

refrigerator and cupboards,

the keeping away of my son’s stomach growl,

followed me to my desk.

 

I knead.

On the fifteenth,

the state will deposit more

food money.

Until then, cool tap water

and brown powder flour

crust and crumble but

hold, hold mystery

ingredients and every leftover

crumb. His laughter.

 

My worry

for him, play.

An experiment in food.

A full belly to dream on. 

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