Haulting to stare down into
another yellowish
one-third full
bowl of hasty food—
you'll grudgingly consider,
per instructions—
I'm probably not
appreciating this stuff enough;
until that slow fury of routine
hunger—which never fails to
rise up and flare hot again
into each dissatisfied cheek,
immolating any trace of this higher desire
before such an exemplary
sentence can even be completed—
reliably bullies you
instead into exonerating
the conciliatory impulse—to finish
something
by completely
destroying it.
