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Soup
by Kay Weeks

No bowls in the new place,
so we drank from cups—
I had forgotten to stir—
and you watched limp spinach
floating to the top,
while I saw chicken,
sinking like ballast,
and that made us laugh.

We talked, of course,
and touched hands,
felt something akin to joy
just savoring those flavors of the day!

Afterward, we cleared the table,
did the dishes; set it all to rest.
Ten years it’s been, at least,
And somewhere else,
trying our best
to remember that funny soup—
in time’s ungovernable blur.

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