I’m comfortable with the idea that to some I am an extra serving of dessert, or the dressing on their salad; rare is the soul who sits down to me as a simple, sustaining bowl of rice — a beggar’s bowl, like mine, filled with gratitude, and worn with use, on the narrow road to the deep north.
Fate
A shadow on the snow
after the last flake falls
on my old black coat
Poems, Slightly Used, January 29, 2010
Categories: Poems, Slightly Used
