dinner bell

Too much dinner on the plate 
is not my kind of made mistake. 
I like my portions sensible. And 
generous. And back for more
full plates to fill, until until 
I reach the point of pleasant-plump. 
Or "fat and sassy," as needs want. 
I never push past perfect, now. 
It doesn't please my needs somehow
to meet them in the way beyond, 
and call that find, and well, and fond. 
So just imagine my surprise
to find this plate half-cleaned.
My eyes
have just regressed to childhood, 
I guess. Grown big while stomach's 
stretch cries uncle, and demands 
a rest. A respite, a reprieve
from mess