Black coffee and brown rice;
   Mother Hubbard's feast.

A little hard to admit:
   This is all I have in my kitchen
      To create a feast.

It's enough, though;
   For a poet sitting still;
      Fuel for my fingers
         As they create something to show.

Sure, it would be nice
   To have more than coffee and rice;
      But at what cost?
         Would my gleaming visions be utterly lost?

It will suffice:
   Coffee and rice;
      'Til my fingers beg for more,
         Something new from the store.

This afternoon, though
   And thIs evening, too;
      I will maintain,
         And create something I can proudly show.

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