tortilla soup

moon hangs in the sky;
her presence can help me decide:
half empty or full, a frown or a smile?

porcelain glistens, wet and smooth,
she clunks her arrival at the table, and I pull her to me;
self-conscious, aware of my need to thank God
for all the providence and provision that allowed this meal to happen.
silver spoon sings on takeoff,
and I dive into the Chef's recipe.

crunchy and colorful top layer,
that's what I expect with tortilla soup.
warm and bold,
but she'll get cold after too long, sitting on the patio.
peppered, tongue stings slightly
one alarm, maybe two.

time slips by as she fills me
with hints of cream
soured, chunks of avocado green.
she's cheesy, corny --
not saying that's a bad thing --
and like me, a little chicken inside.