Leftovers

                Through my blind stomach’s lens
When all I knew was hunger—
Always just short of just enough—

                Cabbage soup, rationed meat.
With a still un-succored soul,
Stomach-panged:  in dreams, I feasted.

                Would have ever sufficed.
Prayers were starving wishes.
Grace was mythic luxury.

                Of throwing away food
At the end of every meal,
Consuming comfort from excess.

Not enough to wrap up
                (or feed  needy  others):
Dainty icons to surplus,
Perfectly portioned acts of waste:

An ounce of veal,
                A spot of boursin mash,
Two spears of asparagus,
Chunks of parmesan ciabatta.

                With béchamel’d grace,
                With truffle’d arrogance,
                With umami’d reckoning,
My exuberant extras—
                My leftovers—
                On a loathing emptied plate,
Through re-collected dreams,
                Where hope yields to grace,
To a writhing, cakeless boy.

Are  persistent reminiscence;
When the sun glints between the buildings
Across the manicured square;
When the shadows grow long and crawl
Into my un-blinded window–
            Nearer days end
            Than beginning;
When the brook of visitors and callers
Has thinned to a listless trickle:

When my chin bends toward my chest,
When my breath achieves the
            Rhythmic pulse of a
            Cloud falling apart
            into an otherwise spotless sky.

From stolen lunch,
On just-cracked spines:
Speckled pillow.
I’ll move that pile,
            I promise
Those large boxes,
            I hope,
To make some room
For that sofa
Later.

When the words have overwhelmed me
With their congenital failures;
When the whispers from the past float by
Toward unrequited beckoning;
When the work ahead is stacked higher still
Than any effort might relieve;
            Two zeds til    
            Two fifteen
When the new day’s promise sits removed  
From morning’s matted memories:
 
My distraction sits upon the
Consternation of yesterday’s rest,
The fifteen minutes spent in slumber,
            When well-served effort
            Would have cleared  the space
            For sofa: chunky napping place.
                                               
Having reached that point,
I can’t but daydream,
Downed, counting moments
As they beat, beat, beat,
Lucidly, fleeing,
             I yawn,
Toward that bigger couch,
            (I’ll sleep)
Where the lounge, the chaise,
Has been always,       
Already,
Always.

Past the point,

Archaeologists

                You and me,
A couple of archaeologists,
Comparing pasts against
                Origins,
Placing them on mantles,
Or shelves as trophies.
                Naming them,
Stripped of humanity,
Denuded of skin:  relics.

                Then I stopped.
Erasing them from history,
Forgetting some were my own,
                Still in me.
I crammed them into closets,
In crates and boxes, piles,
                Skeletons.
Bedpost notches—calcified
Knots worn—sanded smooth.

                You and me,
You kept digging and dig still,
For some future from the past,
                Fecklessly.
Excavating yet, the same site,
Leaving little for the future’s
                Bone-diggers.
You tunnel vertically, deeper,
Chipping chisels and
                Diamond tips,
Until the bones—heaped high
By your hovel—faceless, nameless
                And skinless,
In veins without blood,
Are naught but broth:
                Black soup:
                                   oil.