cream of wheat

sometimes at night

we stroll the market aisles

ben and jemima and me they

walk in front remembering this and that

i lag behind

trying to remove my chefs cap

wondering about what ever pictured me

then left me personless

Rastus

i read in an old paper

i was called rastus

but no mother ever

gave that to her son toward dawn

we return to our shelves

our boxes ben and jemima and me

we pose and smile i simmer what

is my name

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