After dinner
the sauce congeals
to crust. The fact of it,
undisturbed on the plate —
a stiff wind on still windmills,
peasants cutting grass.
Plaque in the veins
turns to stone, til some
ya’hoo digger brushes
it off and holds it up
as evidence, some
ten thousand years
from now.
Let them find plates
among our bones.
Lets them find spoons
and blue nostalgia.
Let them find teeth
and the brown remains
of bechamel.
Image: Arvid Høidahl on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Devon, your talent as a poet grows by leaps and bounds. Not only that, those fortunate enough to read your work will surely benefit in crafting new writings. The depth of your style is exceptional, my good friend!
Thank you, Lance. As you know, it is a slog to get read. And I appreciate everyone that takes a moment to read my work.
D
You are sincerely welcome, Devon. We’re each at a place in our writing where we anxiously awaiting further recognition. Don’t be too discouraged, it will happen. Perseverance wins the day, good friend!
I am never discouraged, my friend. I am an ambitious beast, not easily dissuaded from my passions. I will stay the course, as always. And thank you for the encouragement. Tenacity is always stronger with bracing.
D
That’s wonderful, Devon. If you have a deep rooted passion for writing (or any other art), you will succeed. I wish you the absolute best in all your writing endeavors!
This poem is perfect!!! 😊
Thank you A.
D