Food for Thought
I sit within the broken ladle- a sheet of plastic dirtied.
I wrap my fingers about two
straps that hold the ladle sturdy.
I push my feet against the
starches drowned in soup.
My legs turn up and catch
the steam turned up from the coup.
I look up and close the lids
- both so naught escapes.
My body discreetly simmers
and leaves my thoughts to shape.
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