Poem 412

Expanding on a theme from the last poem and thinking perhaps of my grandparents who basically had six meals a day and washed the dishes after each one …

Finally

there is food
                           when life
          has scoped down to the size
of a dinner plate
                                  sex shrivelled away
lead infected the joints
feet pulling downhill out of
         control

food
         the world by scones
each place marked on a map of eating 
each hour measured
by food gone food to come food
      passing

                      fetishistic recipes
pornographic memories
earth's heavy nipple
pumps hot and regular meals
                cream morning teas and cups of coffee
                between

the fat dog under the table
to whom every movement
of a hand every
incomprehensible word
                                                means just one thing