The carcus is in the soup kettle, along with vegetables,
To make turkey soup, turkey enchiladas, and sandwiches.
The feast was yesterday, a fine meal with a friend and family.
My daughter complains about not finding homeless to feed,
It is cold outside at this time of year, as night freezing.
Many people are, metaphorically, leftovers.
Some are left over from previous wealth,
or at least sufficiency,
and now unable to provide the minimum for themselves.
The guy who bought my SilverWing motor scooter,
though now owning his own home and semi outright,
had lived in a cardboard box previously.
The woman friend, mentally and physically disabled,
lived on the street and in the bushes for weeks on end
and suffered brutality from her boyfriend and the police.
Alchoholics, mentally challenged, special needs abound
among the leftover people.
We lock up many of them, drug related, misfit, and ill prepared to
defend themselves against our outrageous onslaught and vindictive nature.
Leftovers who don’t attend school try to find a place to fit in
without an education given freely to those apparently entitled,
smart, rich (comparatively) and trauma free.
Sometimes leftovers don’t appear any different,
Sometimes they are leftover from organized religion,
Sometimes from love,
Sometimes from war.
When you see a leftover, take them to the feast,
a feast of turkey and all the stuffings,
a feast of love and prayer,
a feast of friendship and kindness.
Make a soup of the leftovers, keep them warm and let them blend with you and yours. Watch the flavors come out, aroma therapy.
The leftovers help you fully appriciate the life you live in isolation from them.
And, they will love, instruct, and enrich your life too.