My favorite flavor of Campbell’s soup

is Chicken and Stars,

those hundreds of tiny stars

in a microwave bowl, on a wooden tray

above the blue carpet, on a Saturday night.


Jeremy tries to annoy with his slurp-slurping

of the starry spoon, but I

just laugh with a grilled cheese chuckle.

It’s either the MSG, the flickering TV,

or that brotherly bond tonight renewed


against a common babysitter.

She sits on a stool in the kitchen.

She speaks

into the telephone with an excited voice

to someone old, probably a boyfriend.


Some of the thin broth

splashes onto the carpet.

I let Jeremy change the channels;

he says I can finish the rest

of his soup.