Core

Tempered with crushed ice.
The nibbles of little mice.
Crumbs left on the carpet.
Bums outside the market

Chew what you will spare.
Dusty fingers prod the air,
Still, and yet I cough.
Knowing it’s not enough,

But will have to do,
While struggling to pursue
More substantial.
This subscription has been canceled.

The vile left with poison,
Spooning to the boys in
The dormitory
Repentant and reformatory.

Take heart, little child.

The penance has been mild.
The sting and bruise will heal,
Leaving nothing to conceal
But the shiny inner plate,

Empty, because you ate
All your beans,
Knowing that this means
No more is coming.

Push off from table, running.
Leap for the door.
Here there is no more, but
Your apple has its’ core.

Take it, plant the seeds
In soil that suits your needs.

4/6/22