POEM: Black Gold

My mother leaves my coffee can open

morning is stale, flat, weak

She uses the last slice of bread

noon is empty, unfullfilled, hungry

My mother put rotten food back in my refrigerator

my evening is disturbed

Why?

She says she didn't know where I wanted to put it

thought I had a special place

for things spoiled

I do

my childhood memories make handy containers

my dreams compost the scraps

slumbering, steaming, changing

awake I sift through the clumps

and enrich my writing with the best

of the worst