SNACK’S END

In part, it is the bitterness
of that fat and acrid inch or two,
where the otherwise sweet and slender root
begins to resemble and taste like an onion,
that moves you to consider slinging the last of your carrot
out, over a parking lot, maybe
into a field.
And partly it is the simple, seductive vegetable weight
that tempts your curled fingers. To chuck it
would not be littering. A piece like this
will safely curl and rot
in classic biodegradation.
Nor would it be a waste of food.
That urban anomaly, the untamed rabbit, may steal out
from ninebark, lilac, or bridal wreath
and quietly devour the orange scrap.

Conscience mollified, you hunger to launch it,
watch it arc through the air,
perfectly as a ball, mesmerizing your eye
with its inimitably cylindrical tumble and roll.

Let the industrious
lop this part off in the kitchen, poke it
with toothpick halves, nurture it
into a flowering houseplant.
They will have missed
the exquisite and rare satisfaction
of casting aside
that which offends.



Previous     Contents     Next