Poeticizing

Scene from Jeff's Deli
           ~for Chelsea Glass

I’ll taste the soup, her laugh
    explains. But where’s the spoon?
        No matter where

if not here, I stress. For soon, I know
    she will leave, a glance from over
        her coffee convinces me,

and the sip of soup is the tenor
    or will be, of her remembrance. Her
        without spoon, slurping the curve

of a need, to live outside
    the dish she thinks me
        unwilling to break, whatever

the spoon on purpose left out
           of the stir.
     Not of soup, but her,

not stirring me, though I would wish
    to swirl in the broth of how
        she quickens,

she, the necessary silver,
    the tone of her taking always
        parts of something left whole

only when she is
        heard
    hastening within it.

(c) William Glass