DO NOT FEED: there it is again,

mouth agape in vile contortion,

with teeth white and throat black.

Behind steel bars it sits and

waits for gratification from

admiring fools, as we provide

seed and fruit, the dried kind,

from a vacuum-sealed package

that we bought at the market last Tuesday.

But sometimes we feed it blood and

it gets hungrier.

In five minutes,

I’ll hang up and try again later.

But not before thinking too hard about

what I’m going to wear,

or how I’m going to eat,

or when I’m leaving.

You’re not making sense, I can tell

because,

at least you said, once,

“I’ve felt this way before.”

But you move across the floor

and into empty spaces,

admiring details,

and noting everything but what’s really there,

and has been,

for the entire time.

I think you think too much.