August 31, 2003

  • The Glutton and The Master Fruit


     


    Last night, just as I was about to dine out
    I recognized the Glutton:


    covertly catty-cornered, staring with a salacious pout,


    and glued to every detail


    of the feast for my entrails.


     


    I paused, then halted:


    famished yet offended, my appetite souring.


    How dare he enjoy not only the sight


    and smell of my food,


    but also find eroticism


    in my very act of devouring?


     


    My revulsion was overpowering:


    I took not a bite


    But merely gulped mouthfuls of sucked-up air


    Then ‘vomited’ it back out—


    an aerophile bulimic—there—


    figuring my foodless display would get him uptight.


     


    But the damn Glutton wasn’t human,


    but a mischievous sprite


    who laughed with pure glee at the thought


    that I could create an eating disorder with nought.


     


    So divine did the Glutton consider


    My gastronomic pantomime


    That he, too, began in empathetic entrancement


    To ‘vomit’ up air with such ungodly retching and heaving


    That he caused everyone to stare, raptly disbelieving.


     


    The Glutton thus learned from me how to gross


    Everyone out at no personal culinary cost.


    And, in a instant, all entirely lost


    their hunger and that loss was a prize


    to the Glutton’s bulging eyes.


     


    And then the Glutton stole off into the night


    Dreaming of all the uneaten dinners in that diner


    Ecstatic with the realization that nothing is finer


    (next to pigging out)


    than ruining other’s appetites.

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