Short Poem Not About Buildings but Food

Food

Fickle food--
its flavors fade
and all that's left
is what weighs
me down.

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I recall a story about a famous poet or short story writer (was it Oscar Wilde) who, after working all morning on his most recent work emerged triumphantly at lunch to announce that the morning had been fruitful, he had taken a comma out.  After luncheon he returned to five hours of afternoon work.  He emerged, again triumphantly to announce that he had replaced the comma withdrawn at noon.

This poem is something like that--the triumph of a day of wrestling with it--the insertion of a punctuation mark.