When Gluttony Is Less Than Ruinous Poem by Michael C. Peterson

When gluttony is less than ruinous we
give it milder claim. Never
was there enough of what we wanted.
We named this Comfort, we
saw our fame inside a statue carried by
its juggernaut. Never were you
crushed so as you were on that day let
me tell you, it was far beyond
what you say so far, here, so far out on
this little cape you call
Tantrum.
You do not even, as once
you would, go low tide out to take some
clams, go past the cove-lot to
the lower appendix of there where you
could walk and have your fill
far shamelessly. Indoors, there's a box
with your x-actos, each one
rounder than the first, sister of the next,
not what you think. It reads:
faith slips and laughs and rallies, that
is what the little saw is for,
the plane, the red-handled exactness of
the wish for world beyond flat
conclusion.
You go to sleep tonight to dream
the little wooden box, your father with the
kit's own forceps, wishbone
widening your mouth, urging it down—
Knock it off. Quit it. Cut it out.