Progressive Soup Eaters

I am atop a screeching seesaw
teeter-tottering above not chasms
crags or cliffs but large steaming
bowls of condensed soup, and
rather than feeling the terror
of making a miscalculation or error
my dilemma is between the
tomato and the chicken noodle,
the salty and the frugal,
a crossroads of sorts where the
fork diverges the road for a long ways.
The cans teach me about the flavor of each,
the nutritional value and why I might
reach for one over the other, why
the seesaw ought to totter in one direction
or teeter in another – but I am viewing
this all too simply, for my bowls of steaming
soup are really two roads ahead of me that at
first diverge and curve along in their own,
snakey ways, crisscross across bridges between
people – places – but at the end come together,
anyway, in a way that makes my choice between a
tangy tomato and a chicken noodle with too
much noodle and not enough chicken
seem irrelevant, superficial.


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