i save
what's left of a meal,
wrapping it neatly,
or i bring it
home in a Styrofoam
box
what's left
on the plate,
but then,
it sits there in
the ice box
on a cold rack,
day after day.
pushed further and further
back by
lemons, or cream,
a carton
of eggs.
i don't even take a peek.
i can't bare
to look at it again,
no matter how
delicious it
was yesterday, or
the day before.
i try not to listen
to the voice in
my ear, my mother telling me
once more about
the starving kids
in India.
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