[wpaudio url=”/audio/june11/alpaugh.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

everyone longs
to sample my
haute cuisine
not that i
a taste or two
(now and then)
i relish the portion that
remains and am hardly being
hyperbolic when i say every morsel
is to die for
; each dawn bringing fresh
hope that no one will snatch my “catch”
of the day—always carpe diem—sloshing in
a still unravished urn: who are these coming
to the sacrifice? what men or gods are these?

friends? colleagues? assorted strangers?
my dog with a frisbee in his mouth?
i gladly serve epic orts to some
others must settle for a sliver
rarely do i say come back
later to taste the flesh
nearest the bone

poets insist that the truth of a repast
is in the beauty of its presentation.
but as gob after gob of my caviar
disappears into the general maw
i am the breadbasket crying:
leave a few crumbs for me!