For lunch today I ate another ham,
egg, and cheese sandwich with whole
wheat Wizards of Waverly Place bread.
It’s a meal that neither thrills me nor bores
me because I am never bored, even by food,
though there are times when, like a cow
chewing grass beside the highway, I am
a little less than thrilled, and am a little
bit smelly. It’s been said that you are
what you eat, which today would make
me a pig, covered in cheese, with an
egg in its mouth. If the smell keeps
those delicate people who eat people
away, I’m all for it, but other than that
I don’t see it doing me much good.
That terrible beauty that waves
its hand to you from a float in a parade.
What is this sinking feeling, I get?
Why, if I return the gesture, is my smile
forced and false? Why do I feel that
we’ve gotten smaller, that there is
nothing but distance between me
and her sparkling white crown?
Bad poetry I can listen to all
day. I can laugh at it, or let it
bore me, keep my feet planted
firmly on the ground while I reach
out for a glass on the table
or something to scratch my back
with. But when it’s good all day
is too much. I just want a little
of it, and then I want you to shut
up. I want you to leave me alone.
Jose's sardonic sense of humor is sorely missed in this city and lost (apparently) to rural Virginia... He and his wife Heather Lynne Davis do a great blog: