Soup is truth.
Soup is simple.
Soup is not pot roast.
Or scrambled eggs.
Soup is honest.
Soup keeps our oldest stories.
Sings them in the choir.
Soup has an open mind.
Soup does not mind all the leftovers in the fridge.
Soup loves all things fresh from the garden.
Kill the bugs first, please. Or not. It’s soup.
Soup is unified. Ready for next.
Soup reaches across aisles. Oceans.
Soup is chunky creamy hot cold spicy bland or blended. Salty.
Soup appreciates how we play matchmaker.
But soup does not mind being alone.
Soup is an introvert.
Soup is extroverted. Loves applause. Center stage.
Soup bows. Soup goes to church and prays.
Soup says, “Come home, and hold me.”
But not too tight.
Soup reads tarot cards.
And predicts at least one more bowl.
Soup is patient.
Even with last minute doctoring.
Soup sleeps like a stone, wakes with a start.
Dances until the potatoes mash.
Soup pushes its best students to the top of the pot.
Soup thinks ladles are silly.
“Who can lick a ladle and keep their nose clean?”
Soup likes to whisper into nostrils.
Not sit inside them.
Soup laughs at my jokes.
Soup knows all my secrets.
Shares nothing. But soup.
Soup has traveled the world.
Sat in a tree house.
Balanced on a tight rope.
Soup is a tease. A wet kisser.
Soup revels in its history.
Soup can’t wait for tomorrow.
Soup is not monogamous.
Soup got married once. In an ode.
Tangoed in Chile. The flirt.
Soup never has to go on a diet.
Soup has never chewed gum.
Soup blows bubbles.
Soup sweats and sighs.
Soup is as intimate as panties.
Soup doesn’t wear socks to bed.
Soup might be an Aries. Moon in Gemini.
Soup is humble.
Soup is on fire.
Soup is coy.
Calm it down.
Soup is truth.
Soup is on.