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Food


What I wouldn't give
for a freshly baked potato
with butter dripping.
But my refrigerator is empty,
not a single thing in it,
and it's been like that for years.
With all the parties I go to,
amidst all the drinking and talking,
you'd think I'd find
a slice of salmon, a cracker,
but no one is eating.
The stores are full,
everywhere shops are bursting
with pastries, with cheeses, with meats,
and still all I see on TV
are shows about dieting.
The hospital beds
are filled with bulimics
while doctors and doctors' wives
starve themselves.
And when finally people see
a hooked fish paraded
down the street, they gawk,
as if they'd never seen a fish before.
Can you blame them?
I too stare. Because once
I ate. It was good.





2009, Ron A. Kalman
This poem first appeared in Exquisite Corpse.