Bowl

If I could cook the food of the spirit
rather than what I think I should be,
what I should have,
and what I don't want to lose,
with wishes from salesmen,
comparisons loaned from the mind,
insured by doubt,
then I would.
Oh but never mind, I'm doing it again.
I'll make it up on this first day of the year,
touch the squirrel on the road,
sweat a little,
write,
kiss you.
You can help me,
hold my legs,
mix it all up in the sky.