a poem by a. kito
From the crevices of impacted crumbs,
From deep inaccessible grease traps,
From the places where the jam drips,
From drains where scavengers hide,
From dust and cobwebs, mildew and rust,
It has dipped into the cauldron
and pulled forth a morsel
from eons past.
Now again the thought returns
to the brew.
The ripples fade.
It sinks once more to the inky black,
to rise never again. This,
the dirge of the auto-churn.