I am apparently stuck on the theme of soup. I can’t resist the urge to claim the status of “published poet” by posting something I wrote in my teenage years. I think I was under some kind of personal dark cloud at the time, so to get the full effect, picture me reading it with great expression and wearing all black in a darkened café with candles. Plus I’m wearing a beret. I’m beginning to think I have always been a closet existentialist.
I am a saltine cracker crumb
afloat in a tomato sea.
Tell me – did I choose to come
and doggy-paddle endlessly?
Or did Evolution’s mighty thumb
disperse my fellow flakes and me
of human mediocrity?