Leftovers

Leftovers

 Writhing recollection,

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

Of crusts consumed, goulash,

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

Anymore anything

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

                I loathed an empty plate.

I have since made habit

                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.

I hand back my current castoffs,

                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, careless boy.