Supper    

Shovel it in.
Then go away again.
Then come back and
shovel it in.

Days on the way,
lawn's like a shorn head
and all the chairs are put away
again. Shovel it in.

Eat for strength, for health.
Eat for the hell of it, for
yourself, for country and your mother.
Eat what your little brother didn't.

Be content with your lot
and all you got.
Be whatever they want.
Shovel it in.

I can no longer think of heaven
as any place I want to go,
not even dying. I want
to shovel it in.

I want to keep on eating,
drinking, thinking.
I am ahead. I am not dead.
Shovel it in.

--- Robert Creeley
From American Poetry:
States of the Art
©2000 CONJUNCTIONS