Everyday one wakes up, Runs a toothbrush over the teeth To and fro. Every day One eats two meals or three, If one can afford them, in between That freshly cleansed mouth. Some call this living, This, which others call wakefulness.

Thought meanwhile expands On the one that preceded it, And seldom becomes a cause For ecstasy. No matter, there are Other things more faithful, Two bellows beneath the ribs, A furnace concealed deeper, Which pumps red plasma, cyclically.

And those other hungers, Those keep one scurrying to satisfy. But no matter what is brought To the table, something keeps Slipping. Sometimes it is the salt, Sometimes the pepper, sometimes The meat is too raw. And sometimes One can’t find one’s own mouth!

No matter, tomorrow also Has a morning for all this…