White Wing

I’ve always a weak attachment to food
In the kitchen I’m an interloper, mending fences
A field hand to the duties of my own appetite

But here I am, bare feet on the linoleum
Rudimentary gut signals begging for nourishment
Appear to me as cravings for salt, or sugar

And I keep feeding this fount of desires
Rolling up some scrambled eggs in tortillas
While outside, a white-winged dove coos:

Who? Who? Who cooks for you?

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