I'm eating a bowl of lentil and coconut soup:
I'm dipping and filling my spoon,
sipping the luscious, sweet creaminess,
swallowing mouthfuls of thick, spicy warmth;
I'm loving the circular rhythm
of dipping and sipping and swallowing,
one spoonful after another,
one mouthful chasing another.
I'm reading the bowl of lentil and coconut soup:
I'm judging the facts on the label;
weighing my taste on the balance between
the calories in versus energy out;
I'm watching the tide slowly empty,
leaving in crusting, concentric rings
the unsightly sight of my appetite,
the script of my cyclical hunger
I'm scraping the bowl of lentil and coconut soup:
I'm using my finger and tongue,
worrying over the cold consequence
of appetite lacking an end;
I'm hungering for a pure edge,
an edge that hunger itself cannot reach,
that once must have carved a wide, howling space
in my chest, in my head, through my soul.
I'm washing the bowl of lentil and coconut soup:
The bowl is now empty,
The bowl is now clean.
It is time, for now, to retire.
It will all start again tomorrow.