Soup

SOUP
Christina Hile

I have swallowed
a spoonful of soup,
but I can’t tell
what kind.

Daily I swallow
noodles, barley,
potatoes.

If we’re lucky,
there is bread or
even biscuits,
but usually
just soup.

Sometimes I
pretend I’m eating
strawberry ice cream,
tenderloin, a bag
of potato chips.

The curtains
hanging in the
window of Lucile’s
Tea Room dazzle
me, I am attracted
to the millions
of watermelons and
pink lilies.

How often I’ve walked
by them wanting to see what
wonders were taking place
inside, but when I was
brave enough to peer
through the glass,
there was only a
woman in a brown velvet
hat sipping soup from
a heavy spoon.

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