8:24 p.m. - 2011-02-23
i sit and wait for egg drop soup,
down the street from the place i used to live;
but that building has since burned down,
like the place before it
almost did; (but that fire just cooked up a stew of poor men.)
I wonder now why
i never ate here, as much as i could have
and wanted; surely the heat of longing was real; and here, now,
i've gone well out of my way for the soup,
2 miles for my sinusitis, my bronchitis,
(not so much for myself really).
Oh, but then i remember: my heart
wasn't on fire, then; not at all.
and it aches now for a wind to carry it, feed it,
or blow it out.
here i am, egg drop soup.
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