A Poem (for the “three”)
I’d always less than half a sense; To my detriment, often doubling-down, Ordering the same sorts of poison – Warm beer, cold women, back alley-ed eyes And other late night snacks simmered atop the oil Salvaged the streets come previously devoured. Bottled and poured, again and consecutively through me, An anomaly now evolves average; Cured only an alchemy wrought, “baijiu,” (rice wine), Crowd summed solitude’s paradox and hazy Chinese moons. So when in Rome, do as the Romans do And die as Romans die; A slighter justification for what’d later trumpet – Salivation’s sip, salvation’s second, A tickle atop tongue, sour in stomach And cancerous come the lesser years, Deep, nether and beyond the once upon a time barren, So I plead for seconds and corral but only Three revelations in the expanses exhumed: One – I want to die. Two – Tastes beat the years. And three – The world’s a wonderful meal; Home to another and common denominator, The shared variable, viable and pliable, Our simple ingestion, communal, So that I may venture a path paved prior And yet parallel something nearly precious – truly alive. Either way, it’d satiated but one achy throb And prevented me from washing the dishes; A fair trade for someone who’d always assumed early ends.
- L.C.
