It happens less these days with the creamy,
       so-called greek-style – the packaging has gone flat
       become a sort of dish or bowl –
       but often when I would have that other cup in hand 
       that first broad-shouldered cube 
       that palaeolithic prototype of the yoghurt cup 
       the one they discovered in the caves at Lascaux 
       (right beneath the big-horned buffalo) 
       the one the hippy types made lampshades with –
       then, often if not always, after a plain old unsyruped, 
       unflavoured unadulterated & slightly tart delight –
       when that last spoon had been flipped & dragged 
       down tongue over lip, the leavings in my left hand –
       I’d turn, unthinking, to give that yoghurt cup of long ago 
       to my beloved Clem who had passed 
       into oblivion a few years prior – – 
       I’d feel the pinch. Certain loves
       just never quite expire. 




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