Nothing to me – is so lovely
as a bowl of chili my mother made me.
But now I feel sorry
and filled with doubt;
wondering wistful –
what I’m about?
Farming meat and suffering.
I’m sorry Mom, I miss your food;
but as a man now, I must choose.
Compassion is in me as I try to digest
a diet void of the greedy machine.
Still some fish but much more green
servings remain in my memory:
Nothing as lovely as my mother’s chili.