Eyes tightly shut, I pretend that
not a single part of it was real—just
some kind of lucid, rotten daydream
straight out of a can
found forgotten and rusted
on the back shelf;
its contents laced
with so many preservatives,
the expiration date just hangs there
a waste of ink, ignored.
Its nutrition facts, faded,
from too many days of
denial and hope.
No, I don’t care what’s in it—
it tastes good, and
I could die tomorrow.
So I nosh on it by the spoonful,
happy for sustenance,
happy when my stomach turns,
happy, once again,
when my eyes open.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Eyes tightly shut, I pretend that
not a single part of it was real—just
some kind of lucid, rotten daydream
straight out of a can
found forgotten and rusted
on the back shelf;
its contents laced
with so many preservatives,
the expiration date just hangs there
a waste of ink, ignored.
Its nutrition facts, faded,
from too many days of
denial and hope.
No, I don’t care what’s in it—
it tastes good, and
I could die tomorrow.
So I nosh on it by the spoonful,
happy for sustenance,
happy when my stomach turns,
happy, once again,
when my eyes open.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
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