“Slotted spoons don’t hold much soup…”
― Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods

This poem scratches the surface
of a laminated table top
with brown paper napkins
and coffee rings on it.

I look around at the people
and they are carrying brown
trays to their tables looking
busy like ants.

I hold the cheap soup spoon
and then dip it into the black
bean goop (I mean soup),
while noticing that I am neither
awake nor asleep.

I am caught between
knowing and ignoring,
between reality and fantasy
and the door swings both ways.

Vicki Woodyard