The cool, cool rose-hip soup on the verandah.
Cream (if there was any) in the middle,
like a tiny cloud, a nebulosa
that grew at uniform velocity
in all directions. Perhaps an emerging
planetary system. Never the same way twice.
The grown-ups impatiently waiting:
Why does the boy refuse to eat?
What was it this cloud was trying to become?
How hard with one’s spoon to
introduce a dreary entropy
into this tiny universe!
And the grown-ups:
If you don’t want your soup, then I’ll have it.