Once, there was this simple
and sweet little toddler, and he
liked to eat honey
all by itself—right out out of the little
bear-shaped jar.
Then, there was his grousing
seventy-year-old grandpa—bushy
brusque Italian, hair
like white feathers, skin like leather
furniture after a fire
who smelled of pungent things
like whiskey and world war
and medicine, and who seemed
to require everything
he ate doused in vinegar.
But at this point
there only seems to be, for better
or worse, me—
seated somewhere
midway in-between them
at the empty rectangular
table in the kitchen, eating
a little rice and broccoli
with some bland breast of chicken
and desperate to point out,
to nobody in particular—that nothing
in the world would be better
than a few healthy spoonfuls
of both
mixed together.
