Spring’s hard light glaring off the peristence of snow

I am leaving for four days
with still so much unspoken.
As they say in Rwanda,
You don’t tell me you hate me
and I don’t tell you I know it.

I’m eating this veggie breakfast bowl,
rice, beans, scrambled eggs and cheese.
It’s too spicy every time
but I never tell this to the cook.
It’s beautiful, Frank, as always.

He smiles big as all life
through his lush white beard
and declares without irony
to himself and the meretricious morning,
I do love cooking breakfast.

A string of melted cheese
connects me, bowl to chin,
ovum, milk, fruit and seed,
how we consume the world,
how the world consumes us.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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