An Extreme Diet

I eat from saucers since I live alone.
Life’s portions do not need a dinner plate
When love is gone.  God gives a stone
And not a loaf, unless the bread has hate
As butter—or, at best, indifference.  Small
Cups made to fit a doll’s house are enough

To fill my drinking wants.  My dining hall
Is meager.  Locked up in a room his stuff
He left behind is far too sparse to make
A meal for any heart.  Why enter there
To find ingredients to mix a cake
Made up of loneliness and absent hair?
..My meals are tiny servings eaten from
….A silent counter.  I pick up a crumb.