All the pieces have been rationed out
and crumbs sustain me.
I remain seated after all are done,
awaiting my excuse.
The lights have long dimmed
and all voices echo over themselves.
A faint trace of repast and laundry
hangs atop the resting air.
The candle flame belly dances lasciviously
low and full.
In jest, the world smelt a silver platter,
lining up and leaving a generous tip.
I count cents,
I keep my change
ingesting the feastful rest.
Painting by Monogrammist Hb. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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