Here comes a dish of cream of mushroom soup,
by candlelight, the colour tan and white.
I fold the thick top layer, take a bite –
“Oh heavens! Spices take me for a loop.
To other places I’ll no longer stoop:
this fancy eatery is my delight.
The bowl so round, pristine, and bright,
I am the fowl, and dining is my coop.”
Then I watch you quickly down your bowl.
I ask you if you thought the food was good.
Unbothered eyes turn up – indifferent soul.
You say, “’s alright”, as lifeless as you could.
And here I thought we grown-ups as a whole
believed agreement makes the dinner how it should.