There is a hunger in me
that is never feels full.
It’s voracious teeth bite at my heart
several times a day.
I give it oranges, pastries and pasta,
but still it wants more.
When I was a kid
my folks said I had a hollow leg
now those legs have grown roots.
Forging a hollow hill below my feet
that lets cold seep in along with the hunger.
I put a hat on my head to keep the heat inside
wind scarves about my neck, my shoulders
pull on tall wooly socks, just to get warm.
It takes a pot of magic soup
conjured with whatever is at hand
leek, potato, turnip or swede
onion, carrot, ginger and bone
boiling and bubbling in a caldron
atop the open flame.
Stirred and salted with a kiss or a prayer
served in bowls of deep blue.
The love sipped from the spoon
will trickle down to fill the cracks
in the cavern and puddle across the floor.
Priming a pump like a volcano ready
to burst the walls with sunlight.
But when there is no time to spell a soup
just let a puppy lead you by its leash
until you are both weary and spent.
Sit down on something soft
then let that little dog
lick all the emptiness away.