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by Jeff Burt
I eat scraps, second-hand half-sandwiches,
cole slaw missing a single fork-dab,
trials of fruit and charred asparagus,
the slink, skunk, chunk,
and burned hunks of meat.
When someone's eyes have grown bigger
than his stomach,
that's when my plate opens like a landfill.
I am the relative who allows the spoon of your mother
to enter his mouth, the poison tester for the king.
While others wait for pie or cake,
I lick their plate.