pulled pork poutine

in the banquet line of life, as
others around me browse
on choice dainties, and gorge themselves
on trendy and esoteric delicacies -
I keep my plate clean
while that slow line moves me along
to the tray I've been waiting for: you

are my pulled pork poutine. Comfort food,
in the way that only the wordless songs
our mothers sang when we were arm-cradled babies
can comfort our wordless woes now. Soul food,
in the sense that if one had no soul, if
there were no such things as souls inside
people, one bite of this would put a soul
into you.

As soon as you could swallow: a soul of your own.