We witness the world
rolling around the moon -
for there is no real sun
after all, only heat
to warm the pen,
watching not
the lifeguard saving
children, but the specks
of fragility teeming
in tidepools
stranded
after the surge.
In the crumbs
of the feast,
there is food
for thought. We spy,
noses pressed steaming
to the pane,
drinking the aroma,
ravenous,
though not quite hungry
enough to stretch
a pointed finger
to the bell.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poets-gathering-the-crumbs/
