Ditch
Damn. It’s weird.
I’m surprised by this ditch. See it? There’s still space Since the jaws of it
Create a yawning chasm Of yearning. Hunger. But it’s starting to
Fill for good.
I thought I’d miss
You. But I miss them The same amount, and It’s all so
Little.
I think I was digging Out dirt for donation So your crops wouldn’t Die, like the daffodils In the front yard.
When I fed the cattle And cooked the steak, I was stuck with
Bones, all brittle,
With bristle and marrow, All of which made my Ditch into a graveyard Of dead dove-like dreams Of meaning something To someone.
So I’m cleaning out
The ditch in my
Digestive tract, and
For once, I’ll try treating The hunger for good So the next time I sit With someone at
A banquet table – someone Who isn’t you – I’ll
Dine with them because I want to eat, not
Because I’m starving Or fear
Being ditched.
