This one's called "Sentimental."
It has an epigraph from Flaubert, who wrote,
I admire tinsel as much as gold.
Indeed the poetry of tinsel is even greater
because it is sadder.
"Sentimental."
For breakfast, loss.
And the day has just begun to shuffle
the cards of its weather.
Though by now, weather is only an emblem of loss to us.
We have our emotions at the ready for lunch.
Which is the food of childhood, on a bed of summer lawn,
lit by the last instant before mother called us in for dinner.
Which then, as now, turns out to be leftover loss in sauce.
[LAUGHTER]
Beautiful mother in the door frame
calling us across the lawns, and alleys,
and fields rich in itch inducing weeds.
Preserve our losses that we never starve.
Not before bed, nor the next morning, not for lunch,
nor for dinner, nor even in memory,
where you call us always home.