The Plate of Hummus
Behold a postured plate of chickpea hummus,
swimming lucent thick in olive oil
no dregs here, not your common pomace,
no skins, seeds, pulp, stems
but this is built from high grade virgin
and ground sesame tahini in light beige,
khaki or charcoal black, in gluts
that threaten to overspill this chinaware.
You could send some through there,
but where the kuboos, where the breadsticks,
what mode of transport - chopsticks?
On dishes at 270 degrees to port,
doughballs congregate, flatbreads caught
sitting in breadcrumb flotillas for crows to peck,
squabble over, guard it jealous or court,
but at obverse angle, you’ve come up short,
bare ramekins, hollow vessels for toothless gums:
a drum, a drum - The Trencherman comes.
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