That at hits the spot conjures meat and potato meals
with my relatives—hale seniors plowing back
from the table, replete with protein
and starch—old-fashioned but accurate.
You might stretch the phrase to mean a cup
of black coffee on a cold day, or scenery
loved and left behind but grafted
to the tongue like taste; a correctly placed caress
or fall of rain. But if pressed, do you say
the spot exists? Or call it metaphor—the space
where need and happiness combine
somewhere between the belly and the mind,
describe it indirectly, use a corny phrase, to save
a seed of feeling—the small green spear of grace.