Ice Cream

At the end of an ice cream dessert

he is unready to quit, and after normal bites

begins to scrape, a tenth of a spoonful, then

a twentieth, then less, unhappy to waste

the merest stain of chocolate sauce.

One can see him resist running his finger

around the bowl and sucking it, or

licking the bowl itself, besmearing

nose and chin. This insignificant bit

is the gold thread in the fabric

of his life, the central diamond

in the ring, the golden apple of his eye,

the signature on the deed of the world.