We’re near the end of the road,
starvation apparent to all
(save the ones in real trouble,
the ones in rose-colored glasses
who watch sunsets
while our star of direct consequence
squirrel meat won’t quite cut it for me
after tasting nutria, the rodent
that eats more roughage per square inch
than I ever thought imaginable.
I taste the green in its diet,
the grassy notes popping on my palate
with just a hint of peppercorn.
I don’t have anything to say to the savage sauvignon or the temperamental tempranillo, they wouldn’t understand me anyway. I do have a bone to pick with these stubborn varietals, but I’d rather keep my emotions bottled up until near explosion. Something about keeping my feelings below the surface just seems right, until I blow my top at a valet guy who’s just trying to do his job. I can’t predict when my manic episode will happen, so I’ll just be leaving it up to chance, the decider of all fate.
Just a note for you, grand deciders of my fate: a wine tasting would be a really good way to boost morale around here. I don’t know if I’m your only subject or if you have an entire warehouse filled with these padded holding cells, but just keep that in mind if you’re looking to do something nice for me/us.
I really wish I could use my arms.