The Feast Poem by Malcolm Wheatman
The Feast
At the bookshop there's a banquet. Another romantic-novelist signs
Her new book. The clamouring crowd, hungry for her latest heroine,
Buy her sickly mille-feuilles. Need for her words hardly declines
As she scrawls more in front of her hundred thousand. But by a shelf
Through an arch are four square yards of silence where a few thin
Wafers sandwich morsels of ragged pica. I quietly gorge myself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 8:55:25 AM # 1.0.0.1119
