Ice Cream
At the end of an ice cream dessert
he is unready to quit, and after normal bites
begins to scrape, a tenth of a spoonful, then
a twentieth, then less, unhappy to waste
the merest stain of chocolate sauce.
One can see him resist running his finger
around the bowl and sucking it, or
licking the bowl itself, besmearing
nose and chin. This insignificant bit
is the gold thread in the fabric
of his life, the central diamond
in the ring, the golden apple of his eye,
the signature on the deed of the world.
