Feed Me
Some may
come by dreams
haunting sleep’s
satin cliffs,
balance on
high precipice
then tumble
in forward rolls,
landing soft
on butter spread,
wake to find
that all’s fled.
Some may
come by hand,
delivered by
coquettish courier
all wet
thumb, lickety finger,
shaped and
pressed into place
just so with
a drizzle of sauce
to
complement the full course.
Some may
come by morning
glorious
from next room’s bed
shake sleepy
head then fall to,
spoon and
stir up the thick milk
from pot
overflowing onto silk
spills,
until hunger’s craving fills.
Some may
come by bold sashay,
in full
gooseberry fool junkets
stiffening
the ever-starving eye,
stuffed leg
and breast and thigh
dripping with
dusk olive oils,
unwrap her flimsy foils and feast.
Some come upon my plat du jour,
for I am
famished at her door,
by my ringed nose I shall be led
to mop up
gravy with soft bread,
devour her heavy laden spread
and lick the
plate clean.
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