Stain of tomato soup.
on a T-shirt—blue
Home-made—
Sautéd and served hot.
Somedays—
those memories return
in a loop.
An old radio—
A cozy blanket,
Breezy winters—
Me, my mom and my brother...
were always in our groove.
Whistling songs on a crackling
frequency...
No way to repeat your favorite...
Yet at every rhythm,
we waved our hands—
and scooped that soup.
Tiny fingers holding a big spoon
Some reached the mouth;
some the shirt—
done by the spoon; not by us
I still remember the sweetness
of the songs.
and the tang of the soup.
I prefer not to wash that stain...
of that home-made served hot soup.