Over A Saucer Of Leftover Chop Suey

Chopped stalks go sour
So I mull over food that keeps
And food that does not
A bulb flickers, a chair fringe flutters
Then suddenly in ether
A man from the Ukraine speaks
He asks how my chop suey tastes
Like an overcast sunrise, I say
I ask him what he had for lunch
He says he had none
Neither he nor his little boy
Has eaten the past two days
If only I could send you
An overcast sunrise, I blurt out
It is all right, my brother, he replies
Next time we meet
We shall have only the food that keeps