Choosing To Leave Her

August 2-6, 2004

The soup smelt sinfully sensational,

but I walked on by, man.

The steam from it formed hands,

though they were feints to my wavering

strands.

The way it boiled there on the white stove,

in that glass pot, seemed cautious but

doable.

To refuse to stir, while waiting are other

lain ingredients; nonetheless, was rueful.

Standard, while in place, to feed a face, to

serve in a bowl, but all there is is a plate.

Some of us held the circling ends that

constantly concerned all to turn and wait.

Hushed by the sob of someone's supper,

I recanted the ususal hog that twinge a rebuttal.

The big swine craves the hewer of a juicy stick,

but the user dabs in being sutble.

Future climatic turns are a risk,

even as one prepares a dish.

(There is some freelancing to be missed)

Injustice in this decreeds meanness of my

opposing wish.

Knowledgeable of my other instant

creates an early attempt at an either fate,

that meditates hope to a higher place.

Questionably, soup without bread is a man

without his mate.

There is a star filled with promises.

I know there will always be trouble

at the gate.

The clusters in the evening grant the

lower world a dream sake.

Like the time clusters in this wake,

I, sometimes fallacy to a fault, arrive

a bit late.

© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy