Charles Carr: I am being stalked

by French toast with bananas and Nutella.
Any type of egg lusts after me.
Bacon, sausage, a stack of pancakes
their lips dripping maple syrup.

Crème brulee, filet mignon, camembert cheese, pasta with pesto tease
and a gin and tonic sat down beside me last night as I ordered a Pellegrino with a twist
reminiscing Tom Collins’ pleasures on hot summer nights.

I am being seduced into escaping from a regime
which has parceled my meals under doctor’s orders,

A regime that gives me half bowl of roasted vegetable soup every night
served with a green salad,
that dominates my imagination with the propaganda
that in the bitter taste of swiss chard and kale can be found fibrous treasures.

Stares as I chew every bite of food at least twenty times
to ensure that whatever magic is hidden in my saliva fully lubricates
digestion and absorption of all those compounds from the Periodic Table
that are holding my molecules together.

I am tired of trapping yolks,
suffocating them inside the shell, marching
to the drain for removal like a hazmat worker.
And toasting what looks like tree bark for breakfast.

My prostate castigates
for just looking at a cup of that dark Guatemalan coffee,
lecturing that this is suicidal,
back off, stick to the herbal tea.

A voice prodding me at noon
inducing me to maybe skip lunch
and just eat an apple-
a fucking apple, for Christ sake!

When are the odds going to be in my favor, I ask,
as I ponder the response of a 100 year old lady
who when asked her secret said:
A Manhattan before dinner.
deep fried chicken,
real lemon meringue pie
with coffee, black.



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