Old Men Cooking

When the fruit falls from the tree,
the eyes turn toward that neat and simple
elegance of an aging desire,

the appetite, the worldly in miniature portions
for cholesterol, or finesse.  Distancing themselves
from the fears that nothing again will satisfy,

they seek satisfaction in the cavern of the mouth,
where echoes of praise will always ring true.
Who doesn’t eat?  They evolve delicate differences

of smells, the city fades out into sewage
and reds and greens take on synesthetic depths
of meaning.  Our noses the instruments of precision

our hearts have failed to become.  We seek surprise
through the stomach, take up a new love
of anything, something, if only one last time.

They ask that their audiences clap rather than savor,
stand up in ovation even, for the sustenance
of this daily bread, bordering now

on the miraculous.  These then are the old men’s
new loafs and fishes, the cannibal dreams that haunt
our noodle realities, the dirty dishes of their salvation.

- George Moore