December 22, 2020

There are cans of garbanzos in my cupboard, enough yeast for two dozen more loaves,
a spare bottle of dishwashing soap, basil managing on the sill, a wide bowl of
working pens, two good, sharp knives among the set, a tableau of paper lanterns
embroidering the porch. An excess floods the upstairs shelves—towels for days—
and there are fistfuls of greetings cards left in the plastic bin with enough stamps
to get them on their way. I am flushed from the blatant sting of abundance
(oh, that eagle-eyed, finger-wag of a word) but still, look at me, wanting even more,
all those slices missing from the deep dish, their sticky trails of sugar-butter.
Look at me, holding my fork to the ether. Look at me, already
opening my mouth.