Soup is Good Food
Coffee grounds, like so much weeping,
Never find a place. You can’t fertilize with tears,
You can’t exasperate yourself with leftovers.
Eggshells, like so much death,
Have no place thinking. You can’t explain their existence,
You dare not whisper in their presence.
Fifties decor, like so much sex,
Never adds to the place. You keep your condoms
Hoping to avoid disease. Never get a chance.
Kodachrome, like so much tax,
Places judgments on obstacles. You grind
Existence into death, snapping housefly moments.
Banana peels, like so much emotion,
Send ball lightning through your place.
Nothing grabs like solo meatloaf dinners.