Every time you eat
I can hear it.
For God’s sake,
It sounds like
You’re making
Love to your food;
One prostitute
With a side of fries
And a coke:
Six seventy.
Or, did you
Misread
The sign?
I guess I’m
Jealous
That my eating
Experiences
Just don’t add up
To yours,
One bite is less than one hoot,
One groan is more than one flavor,
But at the same time
I’m glad I taste my food,
Think about it,
Savor it.
I still remember a time
When eating meant something,
When it was still an act of grace,
One of holy love,
Love we didn’t
Make in the drive thru
Or the streets,
Love we had to ourselves,
That we didn’t have to share
With pigeons
Hopping about
Hoping for a chance at
Some dirty seconds.
I can sometimes taste those days,
Today though, we only taste what is flying out of your mouth to peck us in the eye.