carrots

the cut carrot
almost reaches
your open mouth
but slips from the fork
and falls to the floor,
rolling like an
orange wheel
towards the door.
down the steps
it goes. buttered
and salted,
a thin coat of
black pepper on
it's gleaming
soft back.
there is no chase
though, in you,
you shrug and
take a stab at
the greenbean
in the bowl. always
more where
it came from.
no sweat.