'Bowl'

'Bowl'  (thanks to my fellow contemplatives in the Monday night group at the Mission)

I am a chipped and faded pottery bowl

ready to receive a handful of walnuts

from the stocky white frig or perhaps

the day old microwaved burrito smothered

in hot sauce. You on the other hand

are a silky blonde, smooth skinned beauty

queen sadly lacking a slick centerfold

in that miracle of a magazine I discovered

the summer after eighth grade when I could

feel myself grow every day. Sleep was my

favorite food then, as was all food my food.

Inches were added by Fall when high school

began and it was almost disgusting to sense

these changes in viscera, bone and muscle.

To be and become those changes so outside

my control.

Now my back aches every morning after trying

stupidly to add sprinting to the running workouts,

I hobble for morning coffee and lean in tired

towards an unsubtle brokenness, I am in need

of a tow truck more days than not, and the Subaru's

lights weirdly have a life of their own and stay on

all night unless the battery is unplugged, but Triple A

says, Premier membership or not, I've worn out my

welcome and gratitude has undeniably taken over

my life like the jagged uneven edge of the brown

bowl quiet before me.