I cannot copy poem styles about food without getting hungry

I praise the sandwich bones for my father,

who leaned over the pan and inhaled the smoke
who taught slowly how to smell and feel

when something was ready, prepared
open for devouring, open for the teeth

to rend and tear and grind and devour
and to wash away with the cleansing and cold white
I praise the sandwich bones
because I see them sitting there and growing cold
separate and strange. Only ours.

The only way to make a clean plate
to wipe the world clean

I praise and loathe that cheese soup, the rum milk
the christmas nog and noise and voices through the kitchen
the hallow memories beset by snow and paper wrappers
by early morning and footprints in the white on the porch
by bells at dark midnight while we count stars in snowdrifs
I wonder where childhood took these things.

I praise the noise and bones of food and thought,
and spread them on the plate before me,

the white bleached and brown speckle crumbs
the cinnamon milk and then the cheese thick and spoon plastic
all over the kitchen
whispering that we were happy, right
that we were wide awake and waiting on edge
and the smells follow me
so, I linger and inhale

It is a childhood we will never have again,
the sandwich bones and warm kitchen,
as we sat on the edge of our chairs and counted
snowflakes and stars in flurry and wonder.

Sometimes I want to ask if he remembers these little things,
but I stay quiet;
Everything else had been forgotten-
We wipe the plates clean.