Meat Dream

“I am a shape that can but eat and turd,”

eecummings

I used to play with my meat…my meat

used to love to play.

No one wants to eat or play with old meat.

Call me road kill, might as well.

I’m just waiting for my ditch at the side of the road.

I’m still talking, talking meat, although,

I don’t have much to say.

The Harpies, flies buzzing around in my room,

are my interpreters.

Humorous, the men in three piece suits…

thinking they’re something more.

Tragic, the carnage in the fields of war,

meat laid bare.

Ozymandias, the symbol of the outcome

of all of meat’s dreams, futility of complexity,

of all who walk on stalks of bone.

Steak tartar, I serve myself to others, though

their interest is rare.

I’ve been cooked, I’m done, life’s oven

has done its job on me, baked my mind

into a meat soufflé, tasty, but not for everyone.

So now, my empanada, ham and cheese,

meat meets me so I dream another day.