Parable, of the Bowl

It is that category of awake, as in

Something hasn’t settled, and

The worry of some flattened, stowaway grief,

Like the cardboard between wall and waste bin,

That won’t be gone until you move it, but first to

Address the clutter of food-scrap defectors,

Mold, the exodus of ants outlining floor and garbage

And that cardboard, again, from the foreclosure sale,

A subsequent casualty after the marriage went sour, and now,

Now, your ransacked heart has sent you to the pantry,

Reaching for the cereal, the milk, the bowl —

What else on earth will enact the divine for you:

Hold, wait and serve you, lip to lip, from out of itself?

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