Food’s just fuel. For me, at least.
Little pleasure there
beyond that of having
no more hole in the gut.
Taste’s something, sure,
in the moment but
I don’t savor memory
of what’s good over
what’s good enough.
I know how freakish
that might seem to the
artisanal masses. I know
you may think I’m exaggerating
or that I am somehow compromised
or stunted because of this,
and perhaps that’s right, but
you’ve never felt how large
the hole yawns in me or how
it sucks the flavor away
from anything I might use to fill it.
