The Last Bite

Seven nights of rice and beans,

     a dull round dance on my plate,

     flavors tamed to a murmur,

     each bite an echo of fate.

I stir the pot like a tired mind,

     simmering hope that’s lost its spark,

     a sprinkle of salt, maybe a find,

     but these meals leave a familiar mark.

The empty bowl sits cold and bare,

     like pennies counted, dwindled and worn,

     I scrape the sides in quiet despair,

     hungry for change, but feeling torn.