I do not mind the spilt soup,
in the beginning it is to be expected.
I do not begrudge yoghurt from ear to ear
nor beans in his hair,
he is new here and unskilled with our utensils
But food deliberately thrown on the floor
and smeared on the table,
that is another matter.
Lovingly, I try to explain about food:
“Food is special. Something was growing and we stopped
it so you could grow. And there are all those other
little ones who do not have enough. . .”
He is unfamiliar with the language as with the manners.
He smiles his openness to me,
willing to understand/not understanding.
I dream of Tibetans who bless every morsel and dedicate
the lives taken to the goal of enlightenment.
I dream of fruitarians who eat only the gifts
a plant gives freely.
I remember MacDonald’s.
I consider the continuum.
In the moment before sponging, I share the artist’s vision.