Crumbs

 

I'm waiting...

 

for crumbs to drop

from the master's table.

 

I'm submissive and boring

and there you are... snoring...

 

again.

 

But when they drop

those crumbs are a banquet

to me.

 

And they keep me nourished

and fed, and I flourish

in your renewed interest

for now...

 

at least,

till the supply

 

runs out.

 

How long will I linger?

 

Round your little finger

I'm wound.

 

Unsound.

 

From you I must flee

If just a degree

of pure dignity

 

I can keep.

 

So steep....

 

the slope that I slide down

and climb

each time.

 

No more.

The End

4 comments about this poem Feed