You magic floury. In the hood

you be everything married

with chicken wings & drumsticks.

From syrup sandwiches to

the impromptu hot dog bun.

You be the last picked in a game

of twenty-one. The end and butt 

of all jokes. Until nothings funny

about longing for a soft bite

over hoppin’ John. Kin call you

the heel, the villain left alive

before being discarded

like one day old expired milk

in the fridge. Far too often

you are unsung in bleak times.

When there are no croutons

you are there. When there is no

stuffing. You are there. Always

without reservation or demands

how unconditional you are?

Making light again and again

the way you blessed a village

with five loaves and two fish

the way you blessed a struggle

meal with harmony to balance

out the funk from a long day.

My main side piece.

My daily prayer.

Give us this day.