Smoothness without shine,
thick metal without luster,
cast iron blackness,
holding a measured amount,
of watery morass;
mixed throughout, tossed,
with thinly spread morsels,
bits to chew and savor,
sparingly ladled out time and time again.
Enough to allow but one to subsist,
for a limited time,
by greedily taking in the sustenance,
found within the pot;
until one day it’s gone,
leaving but the container.
A pot, empty, to those remaining,
who are left to stew for awhile,
until a measure of time passes;
and then slowly they begin,
to undertake the chore,
of refilling the pot.
They light a fire beneath,
and they too, try to create,
a rich thick stew,
from a watery lot.
And so they mix and stir and simmer;
then they dole out into cups,
their watery morass,
and share, and toast, and raise a cup,
and pretend they have had their fill,
of the recently departed.