To my father I feed this soup.
I am unloved by women.
My father has nearly forgotten his love
for me, and I seek to unremember
these weeks of unsleeping
in his home. Thin veins of snow stitch
the grass outside. The home leaks
heat. Driving into town, life moves along,
normal as the wind
as it hustles leaves over
nuances of early snow.
In the store, I buy soup from
a woman more unloved than me.