Leftover Soup
My mom had a dish she called leftover soup;
I think it arose from World War Number Two,
When nothing was wasted, when all was recouped.
Sometimes it was creamy, sometimes like a stew.
And all those jars in the back of the freezer?
Into them went all of the leftover bits!
No matter how odd or how much unrelated,
Leftover veggies, moussaka, cheese grits!
And when they were full, it was time for the soup pot,
A boiling hot cauldron of leftover hell,
I'd come home from school and open the front door
And know what was cooking from that wretched smell.
When this was for dinner, I knew that my chances
For getting dessert had now dropped below nil,
With plenty of choking and gagging and crying,
Eating that soup like a large bitter pill.
The thing I found strange as we all got much older,
When she had the money with no need to scrape,
She’d serve it to guests, and she’d do so with gusto;
From that dratted soup, there was just no escape!
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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