This banquet
Of golden cake crumbs
Strewn over our breakfast table
Could feed
A flock of wild birds
We ought to
Shake the tablecloth
Out in the yard
And go back to bed
Leaving them
To chirp about their good luck
Not even minding
To take flight
Every time your mother
Sticks a mop
Out of the kitchen door
And gives
Its tousled head a shake